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UNI?.  Of  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  AHGELE9 


The  Steps  of  Honor 


BY 

BASIL  KING 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  INNER  SHRINE,  THE  WILD  OLIVE, 
THE  STREET  CALLED  STRAIGHT,  ETC. 


' '  A  tout  pec  he — misericorde ! ' ' 

—Old  French  Saying. 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET   &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Published  by  Arrangement  with  Harper  &  Brothers. 


Copyright,  1904,  by  HABPRR  &  BKOTHBKS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  April,  1904. 


With  sincere  affection  to 

M.  B.  F. 
The  most  loyal  of  friends 


The    Steps    of  Honor 


The    Steps    of  Honor 


GATHA  sat  at  her  little  desk  with  the 
curved  legs  and  the  gilded  ornaments. 
The  hand  with  which  she  held  the 
pen  was  raised.  She  was  evidently 
thinking  out  her  sentence  before  put 
ting  it  on  paper.  Persis  watched  her 
silently  from  the  doorway. 

"She  hasn't  heard  me,"  Persis  thought.  "I  won 
der  if  I  could  play  a  trick  on  her?" 

But  even  to  Persis,  who  had  not  much  reverence, 
tricks  seemed  out  of  place  in  the  presence  of  that 
stately  girl,  and  in  that  spick-and-span,  white-and- 
gold  apartment.  You  could  see  at  a  glance  that  it 
was  a  house  in  which  there  were  no  disturbing  ele 
ments — no  men,  no  children,  no  one  to  upset  things 
or  break  them  or  put  them  out  of  order.  The 
minute  you  entered  you  felt  yourself  in  the  home  of 
one  who  had  not  only  the  instincts  of  elegance,  but 
the  money,  time,  and  freedom  from  other  cares  to 
allow  those  instincts  play.  Perhaps  it  were  better 
to  say  the  lack  of  other  cares ;  for  it  was  the  want  of 
something  to  do  and  think  about,  while  within  her 
own  walls,  that  had  caused  Agatha  Royal  to  spend  so 


2130522 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

much  pains  on  her  surroundings.  People  in  Old 
Cambridge  thought  it  a  pity  that  she  should  pull  to 
pieces  the  old  house  her  father  had  left  her  and  her 
great-grandfather  had  built;  but  when  she  crossed 
her  own  threshold  Agatha  had  almost  no  other 
occupation.  As  she  was  thoroughly  modern  she 
cared  for  nothing  but  the  antique.  Whether  or  not 
it  was  exactly  appropriate  was  a  subject  she  did  not 
go  into.  The  hall  was  "Old  Colonial,"  the  library 
"Empire,"  the  dining-room  "Chippendale."  The 
drawing-room  in  which  she  sat  was  "Louis  Quinze," 
or  as  nearly  "Louis  Quinze"  as  the  conditions  of 
American  architecture  of  the  late  eighteenth  century 
permitted  her  to  make  it.  She  herself,  with  her 
right  hand  slightly  raised,  and  the  lace  sleeve  of  her 
flowered  silk  house-gown  falling  back  from  the  fore 
arm  and  wrist,  was  not  unlike  some  beauty  of  that 
court  in  which  Marie  Leczinska  and  the  Marquise  de 
Pompadour  divided  the  honors  and  authority. 

"Do  I  behold  Mrs. Montagu  or  Madame  de  Stael?" 
Persis  inquired,  after  she  had  stood  for  a  long  minute 
in  the  doorway. 

"Oh,  come  in,  Persis,"  Agatha  cried,  turning  with 
a  quick  smile.  "I  was  just  writing  a  note  to  Mr. 
Wollaston.  If  you're  going  home  you  might  take  it 
with  you." 

"I'm  nothing  if  not  obliging,"  Persis  returned, 
advancing  into  the  room  and  sinking  upon  a  gilded 
sofa.  She  did  not  sit,  nor  yet  did  she  recline;  she 
drooped  into  the  seat,  twining  over  it,  so  to  speak, 
much  as  a  bit  of  climbing  vine  might  fall  upon  a 
bench  in  a  garden.  Mrs.  Arlington  Revere  was 
accustomed  to  say  that  Persis  Wollaston  was  so  thin 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

that  she  couldn't  sit  upright.  This  was  scarcely 
true,  for  on  occasions  Persis  could  hold  herself  with 
the  straightest.  If  her  movements  were  serpent-like 
and  her  attitudes  sinuous.it  was  only  because  she  was 
as  supple  as  a  trailing  arbutus  in  the  spring. 

"Did  you  come  for  anything?"  Agatha  asked,  as  she 
wrote. 

"That's  polite,"  Persis  answered.  "Of  course  I 
know  I'm  not  intimate  enough  with  you  to  come  for 
nothing,  but — " 

"It's  just  after  lunch;  that's  why  I  asked,"  Agatha 
explained,  hastily.  "You  know  I'm  glad  to  see  you 
at  any  time.  I  only  thought  that  perhaps — " 

"I'd  come  on  an  errand.  Well,  you're  right. 
Aunt  Fanny  sent  me  to  ask  you  to  come  to  dinner 
this  evening." 

"Oh!"  Agatha  exclaimed,  with  an  air  of  embarrass 
ment.  "  I  should  be  very  glad  to  come,  only — only — 
I'm  sending  rather  important  news  to  Mr.  Wollas- 
ton." 

Persis  was  nominally  sitting  with  her  back  to 
Agatha,  but  it  required  only  a  slight  twist  to  her  per 
son  to  bring  the  two  young  women  face  to  face. 

"Important?"  Persis  repeated.  "That's  good. 
We  hardly  ever  hear  anything  to  which  that  exciting 
adjective  can  be  applied.  But  perhaps  you've  re 
quested  Uncle  Hector  not  to  tell  me." 

"No.  On  the  contrary,  I  almost  feel  like  telling 
you  more  than  I've  told  him." 

"Now,  that's  what  I  should  call  condescension. 
There's  nothing  that  flatters  a  young  person  of  nine 
teen  more  than  to  know  something  that's  been  kept 
from  her  elders." 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  ought  to  say  it,"  Agatha  ob 
served,  as  she  sealed  and  addressed  the  envelope. 
"And  yet  I'm  dying  to  tell  some  one." 

"You  couldn't  find  anybody  more  discreet,"  Persis 
assured  her.  "I've  had  secrets  confided  to  me  that 
I've  kept  for  twenty-four  hours  and  more." 

"This  isn't  going  to  be  a  secret  —  not  after  to 
morrow." 

"Then  all  the  more  reason  why  you  may  tell  me. 
I  should  have  perfect  confidence  in  myself  till  then." 

Agatha  rose  from  her  desk  and,  coming  forward, 
handed  her  letter  to  Persis.  At  the  same  time  she 
drew  forward  a  "Louis  Quinze"  arm-chair  and  sat 
down  beside  the  sofa.  With  instinctive  respect  Persis 
straightened  herself  into  a  more  becoming  posture. 

"No;  sit  still,"  Agatha  said,  in  her  commanding 
way.  "Don't  move  on  my  account." 

"It  isn't  on  your  account,"  Persis  answered, 
promptly.  "  I  was  afraid  of  crushing  my  hat.  Now, 
tell  me  your  guilty  secret.  I  can't  think  what  it  can 
be  unless  you  are  going  to  be  married." 

"Well,  that's  it." 

"For  pity's  sake!"  Persis  exclaimed,  sitting  up 
straighter  than  ever.  "For  pity's  sake!" 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  say  that,"  Agatha  re 
marked,  in  a  tone  almost  of  offence. 

"There's  no  reason  why  I  should,  I  suppose.  It's 
only  that  you're  twenty  -  five,  and  I'd  begun  to 
think—" 

"That  I  was  an  old  maid,"  Agatha  laughed. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  say  that.  But  I'd  begun  to  think — or 
to  hope,  rather — that  you  wouldn't  marry  at  all." 

"Why  hope,  Persis,  dear?" 

4 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

"Because  I  felt  sure  that  if  you  did  you'd  step  in 
and  take  some  one  I  was  thinking  of  for  myself.  The 
choice  isn't  very  large  or  very  varied  as  it  is — " 

"And  were  you  thinking  of  any  one  in  particular?" 

"No,  not  in  particular.  I  was  thinking  of  two  or 
three — " 

"Any  one  of  whom  would  have  done?" 

"Oh  no;  for  any  one  of  whom  I  should  have  done 
— so  they  said — but  for  none  of  whom  I  had  that 
sense  of  conviction  which,  it  seems  to  me,  ought  to 
be  the  chief  element  in  such  a  decision.  Still,  I'm 
not  sure  that  I  want  to  see  any  one  else  making  my 
range  narrower." 

"How  do  you  know  I've  done  it?"  Agatha  asked, 
with  a  smile. 

"I  don't  know;  I'm  only  afraid.  You're  the  kind 
of  person  who  always  gets  the  best  of  everything — 
though  you  deserve  it  well  enough,  you  dear  old  thing. 
Not  only  has  fate  made  you  very  well  off,  but  nature 
has  made  you  very  good-looking — " 

"But  you're  pretty,  too,  Persis,  dear,"  Agatha  in 
terrupted. 

"So  they  say,"  Persis  admitted,  calmly;  "but  if  so, 
it's  only  in  a  morning-glory  sort  of  way.  My  good 
looks,  such  as  they  are,  won't  last  till  the  sun  is  up, 
while  you'll  keep  yours  till  you're  eighty.  But,  good 
gracious,  don't  let  us  talk  about  that  now,  when 
you're  going  to  be  married!  Who  in  the  world  have 
you  decided  on?" 

"I'm  really  not  sure  that  I  ought  to  tell  you." 

Agatha  rose  in  some  agitation  and,  walking  to  a 
window,  looked  out  towards  the  Harvard  halls  just 
visible  through  the  yellowing  October  elms. 

5 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

"All  the  more  reason  why  I  should  be  crazy  to 
know,"  Persis  called  after  her.  "Besides,  if  it  isn't 
to  be  a  secret  after  to-morrow,  why  should  it  be  one 
to-day?" 

"It's  only  this,"  Agatha  answered,  turning  from 
the  window  and  coming  back  towards  Persis  again — 
"it's  only  this,  that  I  promised  him  I  wouldn't  tell 
any  one  till  he  had  spoken  to  Mr.  Wollaston  him 
self." 

"Well,  nobody  considers  me  any  one,  so  that  need 
be  no  obstacle  to  your  confidence." 

"  I  must  tell  you,  Persis,"  Agatha  burst  out,  sinking 
into  the  arm-chair  from  which  she  had  risen.  "But 
you  mustn't  tell  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Wollaston  till  you  hear 
it  from  themselves.  It's  Mr.  Anthony  Muir." 

"  Mr.  Anthony — who?"  Persis  cried,  though  she  had 
heard  very  well.  "Surely  not  the  man  who  wrote 
Society  and  Conscience?" 

"Yes,  Persis,"  Agatha  said,  with  eyes  downcast. 

"Well,  I  never  did!" 

"  I  hope  he  wasn't  one  of  the  two  or  three?"  Agatha 
ventured,  glancing  up  for  an  instant. 

"  Good  gracious,  no!  I  should  never  have  lifted  my 
hopes  so  high.  Everybody  adores  him.  Aunt  Fanny 
thinks  he  is  the  greatest  writer  since  Emerson.  I 
only  know  him  from  having  danced  with  him  once — " 

"He  dances  beautifully,  doesn't  he?"  Agatha 
sighed. 

"Exquisitely.  And  he  has  such  lovely  blue  eyes. 
I  hate  to  see  a  man  have  blue  eyes,  as  a  rule;  but 
his  are  like  sapphires.  He  always  reminds  me  of  a 
Viking — with  his  long,  fair  mustache." 

"So  he  does  me,"  Agatha  assented,  simply. 
6 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

A  minute  or  two  passed  in  silence. 

"I  hope  you're  not  marrying  him,"  Persis  said,  at 
last,  with  an  unusually  serious  expression,  "just  be 
cause  he  has  written  an  able  and  successful  book." 

"Why,  no,  dear,"  Agatha  replied,  in  some  aston 
ishment.  "Why  should  you  think  of  it?" 

"Oh,  only  because  you're  ambitious  and  proud  and 
uncommon.  A  husband  who  has  done  something  re 
markable  seems  the  necessary  pendant  to  yourself." 

"You're  quite  wrong,  I  assure  you,"  Agatha  said, 
with  a  flush  that  might  have  been  of  either  modesty 
or  pride. 

"Still,"  Persis  insisted,  "you  like  to  know  that  he 
is  out  of  the  ordinary  run  of  men." 

"I  suppose  I  may  admit  that." 

"And  if  he  hadn't  been  out  of  the  ordinary  run  of 
men  you  wouldn't  have  had  for  him  the  sense  of  con 
viction  you  feel — that  is,  if  you  do  feel  it." 

Agatha  flushed  again  and  glanced  at  Persis  almost 
shyly. 

"You  needn't  be  under  any  anxiety  about  that," 
she  said,  with  a  half-laugh. 

"That's  good,"  Persis  commended;  "and  oh,  how 
I  envy  you!" 

"Why  envy?" 

"Because,"  Persis  sighed,  "it  doesn't  seem  to  me 
as  if  I  could  feel  it  for  any  man.  I've  tried  my  very 
best  and  yet  I  haven't  succeeded." 

"Isn't  there  any  one  you  like,  Persis?" 

"  Plenty.  But  liking  isn't  enough.  If  you  haven't 
the  sense  of  conviction  one  man  is  just  like  another. 
I've  tried  to  fancy  myself  going  off  to  keep  house  with 
this  one  and  that  one — who've  been  willing  enough, 

7 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

so  they've  said — and  it's  been  simply  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  And  in  my  case  it's  so  important." 

"Why  in  your  case  more  than  in  any  other  girl's, 
Persis,  dear?  I  don't  see  any  reason  for  your  think 
ing  so." 

"That's  because  you  don't  have  Cousin  Abby  Leg- 
gett  to  give  you  her  opinion  about  twice  a  month. 
She  never  ceases  to  remind  me  that  as  an  orphan  it's 
my  duty  to  take  myself  off  Uncle  Hector's  hands  as 
soon  as  possible.  She  knows  ever  so  many  girls  in 
my  situation  who  either  married  or  earned  their  own 
living  before  they  were  twenty.  Now,  I  don't  seem 
to  have  any  vocation  for  the  one  or  the  other.  I  can 
neither  dig  nor  beg;  but  if  it  is  necessary  to  do  one 
of  the  two,  I  should  rather  make  it  begging.  That 
would  be  the  equivalent  of  marriage — " 

"You've  plenty  of  time  to  think  of  that,"  Agatha 
broke  in.  "Look  at  me.  I'm  twenty-five — " 

"Ah,  but  as  I've  just  said,  you've  got  that  kind  of 
beauty  that  makes  it  a  matter  of  no  importance 
whether  you're  twenty -five  or  fifty.  You've  got 
lines  and  features  and  dignity.  I've  only  got  a  com 
plexion." 

"But  that's  like  a  rose-petal." 

"Yes,  and  just  as  quick  to  wither.  At  least,  that's 
what  Cousin  Abby  Leggett  tells  me.  She  says  that 
at  my  age  she  was  just  like  me,  just  as  willowy  and 
pretty  —  I'm  quoting  her,  please  take  notice  —  and 
that  the  reason  she  never  married  was  that  that  va 
riety  of  good  looks  has  no  enduring  qualities.  Before 
she  had  picked  and  chosen  to  her  taste  she  had  grown 
stout,  and  her  rose-petal  complexion  had  wilted  like  a 
flower  at  noonday.  That,  she  warns  me,  is  to  be  my 

8 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

fate;  and  so,  if  I  could  have  a  sense  of  conviction 
towards  any  one — " 

"Just  wait,"  Agatha  laughed. 

"I  am  waiting,  but  it  doesn't  seem  to  make  any 
difference.  Still,  I'm  relieved,  Agatha.  There's  no 
use  denying  that.  When  you  began  I  thought  it 
must  certainly  be — "  She  hesitated,  with  a  nervous 
laugh. 

"One  of  the  two  or  three?"  Agatha  supplied. 

"No,  not  that." 

"Who,  then?" 

"I  ought  not  to  tell  you.  But  I  thought  it  must 
be — you  won't  mind  if  I  say  it,  will  you,  Agatha,  dear?" 

"Certainly  not.     Say  anything  you  like." 

"Well,  on  second  thoughts,  I  think  I  won't,"  she 
said,  rising.  "I  must  really  be  going  back.  Aunt 
Fanny  will  want  to  know  whether  or  not  you're  com 
ing  to  dinner." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  tell  me,"  Agatha  insisted,  rising 
in  her  turn. 

Persis  laughed. 

"I  thought  it  must  be — Paul  Dunster,"  she  said,  at 
last. 

Agatha  turned  away  slowly,  so  that  Persis  did  not 
see  her  face. 

"You  can  tell  Aunt  Fanny  I'll  come  to  dinner," 
she  said,  gravely,  looking  out  from  the  window  at 
which  she  had  stood  before.  "At  seven,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  at  seven,"  Persis  answered,  her  laughter 
suddenly  dying  down. 

There  was  a  minute's  pause  before  she  spoke  again. 

"You're  not  cross  with  me,  Agatha?"  she  vent 
ured,  at  last,  speaking  tremulously. 

9 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"No,  dear;  how  could  I  be  cross?  Only  there  are 
some  things  one  really  oughtn't  to  joke  about." 

She  came  from  the  window  and  they  met  in  the 
centre  of  the  drawing-room. 

"Now,"  Agatha  said,  slipping  her  arm  about  the 
younger  girl's  waist,  "run  home  with  my  note,  and, 
above  all,  don't  say  a  word  about  what  I've  told  you." 

With  arms  entwined  they  moved  towards  the  outer 
door.  As  Persis  descended  the  steps  leading  towards 
the  street  she  looked  back  penitently. 

"I'm  sorry  I  spoke  of  Paul,"  she  said,  almost  husk 
ily,  with  a  shadow  like  that  of  tears  in  her  big,  blue 
eyes.  "I  shouldn't  have  done  it  only  I'm  sure  he 
asked  you.  I  suppose  you  didn't  feel — " 

"Any  sense  of  conviction,"  Agatha  said,  hastily. 
"That's  just  it.  Now,  run  off,  and  don't  let  me  hear 
anything  about  it  again." 

"Well,  he  was  worth  it,"  Persis  began,  with  a  touch 
of  indignation  in  her  tone,  but  before  she  could  get 
any  further  Agatha  had  closed  the  door. 


II 


|T  half-past  four  Mrs.  Wollaston  trip 
ped  daintily  across  the  Common. 
She  walked  with  that  light  lifting  of 
her  little  person  which,  in  her  youth, 
had  been  considered  birdlike.  Her 
appearance  carried  the  fancy  back  to 
the  styles  of  1860.  Something  in  the  lilting  of  her 
garments  as  she  moved  suggested  the  crinoline ;  some 
thing  in  the  way  she  wore  her  hair  was  like  the  water 
fall;  something  in  her  bonnet,  ample  in  size  and  high 
in  front,  with  a  wreath  of  pink  roses  resting  on  the 
brow  beneath  the  brim,  recalled  the  days  when  the 
Empress  Eugenie  and  Queen  Victoria  were  young. 
Mrs.  Wollaston  did  not  actually  retain  the  fashions  of 
her  earlier  years,  she  only  reflected  them.  Any  one 
could  see  that  they  had  suited  her.  They  suited  her 
still,  with  her  air  of  pretty  primness  and  gentle  dig 
nity,  and  coquetry  too  simple  and  too  native  to  need 
toning  down  by  time. 

It  was  one  of  those  October  afternoons  in  which  the 
clea'r  New  England  atmosphere  seems  suddenly  shot 
with  translucent  gold.  An  hour  ago  the  light  was 
vivid,  truthful,  realistic.  Everything  hard  and  bare 
remained  hard  and  bare.  There  was  nothing  to  veil 
its  severity  or  nakedness.  Now  the  magic  essence  of 
afternoon  was  in  the  air.  Over  the  marshes,  over  the 

ii 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

Charles  and  through  the  Gothic  aisles  of  elms  the  sun 
was  throwing  slanting  shafts  of  glory,  that  gilded 
common  things  and  set  the  mind  to  thinking  of  the 
light  that  never  was  on  land  or  sea. 

It  was  Mrs.  Wollaston's  favorite  hour  and  favorite 
season  for  taking  her  daily  walk.  She  had  the  Amer 
ican's  love  of  sunshine  and  the  elderly  woman's  sym 
pathy  with  autumn.  More  than  that,  she  had  the 
Cambridge  lady's  pleasure  in  coming  home  when 
term  begins  and  college  opens  and  the  cheerful  life 
has  started  to  flow  anew  through  the  Harvard  halls. 
It  had  been  pleasant  to  go  to  her  cottage  at  the  sea 
side  in  July;  but  it  was  pleasant  to  come  back  again 
to  books  and  friends  and  fireside  and  all  the  inter 
ests  of  a  life  in  which  she  had  grown  up  and  was  quiet 
ly  growing  old.  It  was  with  a  distinct  sensation  of 
contentment  that  she  picked  her  way  along  the  path 
across  the  Common.  With  the  thumb  and  index- 
finger  of  her  left  hand  she  lifted  her  dress  in  front; 
while  in  her  right  hand,  with  the  same  characteristic 
prim  precision  she  carried  a  letter  as  though  it  were 
a  flower. 

When  she  passed  the  Soldiers'  Monument  she 
stopped.  She  was  in  sight  of  Massachusetts  Hall 
and  could  see  when  Mr.  Wollaston  came  out.  That 
was  all  she  needed.  She  did  not  care  to  go  too  near 
and  show  that  she  was  waiting  for  him.  She  liked 
to  keep  up  the  fiction  of  finding  herself  accidentally  in 
his  way.  That  was  how  it  used  to  happen  when  they 
were  engaged,  in  1861.  He  had  received  his  first  ap 
pointment  then  and  she  was  living  with  her  parents 
in  one  of  the  big,  old  houses  at  the  farther  end  of 
Brattle  Street.  Somehow — she  never  could  explain 

12 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

by  what  fortuitous  chain  of  tiny  accidents — she  was 
often  passing  up  from  Kirkland  Street  or  Harvard 
Square  just  about  that  hour  in  the  afternoon  when 
the  young  instructor  came  out  of  Harvard  Yard.  It 
was  inevitable  that  he  should  walk  home  with  her; 
and  it  was  then  that  were  said  many  of  the  things 
she  now  kept  laid  away,  scented  with  memory's  best 
lavender,  in  the  treasure-house  of  her  heart.  After 
they  were  married,  and  lived  near  the  Common,  it  was 
still  more  likely  that  the  small  hazards  of  daily  life 
should  throw  them,  just  at  this  hour,  in  each  other's 
way;  and  many  a  time,  during  the  last  thirty  years 
and  more,  they  had  walked  round  and  round  and 
round  the  village  green  of  early  Cambridge  days,  be 
fore  stopping  at  their  own  garden  gate.  She  never 
admitted,  even  to  herself,  that  she  went  to  meet  him. 
That  would  have  trenched  upon  her  delicate,  old-world 
reserve.  It  was  always  a  chance  —  she  was  on  an 
errand,  or  she  was  returning  from  a  call;  when  there 
was  no  other  excuse  she  was  driven  to  the  subterfuge 
that  there  was  more  shade  or  more  sunshine,  accord 
ing  to  the  season,  in  going  home  that  way. 

This  afternoon,  however,  she  carried  her  reason  in 
her  hand.  Persis  had  brought  Agatha's  note  and 
had  delivered  it  with  so  much  mystery  that  Mrs. 
Wollaston  was  sure  it  was  important.  As  to  the  con 
tents,  she  had  questioned  Persis  in  that  discreet  way 
in  which  there  is  as  little  betrayal  of  curiosity  as  pos 
sible;  but  Persis  was  loyal  to  her  word  to  Agatha. 
Mrs.  Wollaston  was  just  as  well  pleased  that  it  should 
be  so,  for  it  gave  her  an  obvious  reason  for  going  to 
meet  her  husband.  It  was  evident,  she  argued,  that 
if  the  letter  were  important  no  time  should  be  lost  in 

13 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

its  delivery.  It  was  one  of  those  occasions,  therefore, 
when  she  could  boldly  linger  about  that  portion  of 
the  Common  nearest  to  Massachusetts  Hall,  without 
making  apologies  to  her  self-respect.  She  sauntered 
now  one  way,  now  another.  As  she  turned  towards 
the  two  churches  nearest  the  Common  she  quoted 
silently  The  Autocrat's  lines  on  them,  and  sighed 
softly  as  she  recalled  the  day  when  he  had  come  to 
read  her  the  poem  before  its  publication. 

"  Like  Sentinel  and  Nun  they  keep 

Their  vigil  on  the  green; 
One  seems  to  ward  and  one  to  weep 
The  dead  that  lie  between." 

"  We  have  no  one  so  brilliant  now,"  she  said  to  her 
self.  "There  may  be  others  just  as  able,  but  no  one 
who  has  his  scintillating  geniality." 

She  recalled,  too,  the  opening  lines  of  Longfellow's 
poem  on  that  Miss  Vassall,  who,  according  to  tradi 
tion,  lies  buried  with  a  slave  at  her  head  and  a  slave 
at  her  feet  in  the  graveyard  over  which  the  Sentinel 
and  Nun  watch  and  pray  together. 

"  In  the  village  church-yard  she  lies, 
Dust  is  in  her  beautiful  eyes, 

No  more  she  breathes,  nor  feels,  nor  stirs; 
At  her  feet  and  at  her  head 
Lies  a  slave  to  attend  the  dead, 

But  their  dust  is  as  white  as  hers." 

"How  amusing  he  was,"  she  reflected,  with  a  half- 
smile,  "the  day  I  was  foolish  enough  to  ask  him 
whether  the  two  slaves  died  conveniently  the  same 
day  as  she,  or  whether  she  had  commanded  them  to 

14 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

be  slain.  'Neither;  she  had  them  buried  alive!' 
Dear  Mr.  Longfellow!  I  shall  never  feel  that  Cam 
bridge  is  quite  the  same  place  without  him." 

She  turned  again  towards  the  college  and  noted  with 
pleasure  the  fine  color-effects  of  the  sunlight  on  the 
red  brick  of  the  old  Georgian  halls,  shaded  as  they 
were  by  yellowing  elms  and  half  hidden  under  many- 
tinted,  climbing  vines.  It  was  her  favorite  point  of 
view;  it  was  the  one  she  had  been  used  to  all  her  life; 
and,  in  her  opinion,  no  architectural  beauty  in  Rouen, 
Venice,  or  Rome  was  so  restful  to  the  eye  or  satisfy 
ing  to  the  spirit  as  that  to  be  had  just  here.  When  a 
few  minutes  later  the  bell  on  Harvard  Hall  began  to 
ring,  and  long  lines  of  undergraduates  trooped  out, 
filing  away  in  all  directions,  the  human  interest  that 
came  into  the  picture  gave  perfection  to  the  scene. 
That  human  interest  reached  its  height  when  a  tall, 
spare,  slightly  stooping  figure  came  from  Massachu 
setts  Hall  and  passed  the  Memorial  Gateway. 

With  her  lilting,  birdlike  tread  Mrs.  Wollaston 
went  on  to  meet  her  husband.  As  she  did  so  the  sug 
gestion  of  a  flush  mantled  in  her  delicately  faded 
cheek.  In  the  dignified  occupant  of  the  Chair  of 
Mediaeval  Literature  —  the  man  with  bowed  frame 
and  gray  hair  and  wrinkled  cheek — she  never  lost 
sight  of  the  stalwart,  upright,  buoyant  aspirant  to 
scholastic  fame  who  had  been  twenty-five  in  1861. 
He  had  grown  old  so  gradually  that  it  required  an 
effort  on  her  part  to  perceive  it.  The  change  had 
come  minute  by  minute  and  bit  by  bit,  under  her 
very  eyes;  and  so  it  was  only  when  she  saw  some  old 
daguerreotype  or  photograph,  which  showed  him  as 
he  had  been,  that  she  knew  it  had  come  at  all.  As 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

she  saw  him  now  there  still  beat  in  her  heart  some 
echo  of  the  emotion  with  which  she  welcomed  his  ap 
proach  in  the  year  when  they  were  engaged. 

He  walked  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground  and  did 
not  look  up  until  she  was  before  him. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed.  "Did  you  happen  to  be  go 
ing  by?"  He,  too,  kept  up  the  theory  of  accidental 
meetings,  perhaps  knowing  nothing  of  his  wife's  sim 
ple  arts. 

"No,  dear,"  she  answered,  with  what  for  her  was 
boldness.  "I  came  on  purpose.  Persis  has  just 
brought  this  note  from  Agatha.  She  said  it  was  im 
portant,  so  I  thought  you  would  like  to  have  it  at  once." 

He  took  it  and  turned  it  over,  thrusting  out  his 
under-lip  with  an  expression  which  every  artist  in 
the  university  knew  how  to  caricature. 

"Hmph!"  he  ejaculated,  as  he  turned  to  walk 
homeward  beside  her.  "More  trouble,  I  suppose." 

"I  don't  know  why  she  should  give  you  trouble, 
Hector.  She  never  has." 

"She  always  has.  As  girls  go,  I  suppose  she's  a 
good  girl — " 

"A  very  good  girl,  Hector;  a  good,  fine,  noble- 
hearted  girl." 

"Oh,  I  dare  say,  I  dare  say.  You'd  say  that  of 
Fredegonde  herself;  but  I  contend  that  the  best  of 
girls  is  but  labor  and  sorrow  to  a  man  who  doesn't 
like  'em." 

"But  you  used  to,  Hector."  Mrs.  Wollaston  pro 
tested,  with  a  smile  and  a  deepening  of  tint. 

"I've  got  beyond  that  stage,  and  so  have  you,  my 
dear.  If  you  were  still  young  and  pretty,  I  shouldn't 
be  half  as  fond  of  you  as  I  am." 

16 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"  If  that's  a  compliment,  dear,  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
like  it.  But  aren't  you  going  to  read  your  letter? 
Agatha  may  have  something  important  to  say." 

He  tore  the  envelope  open  and,  as  his  eyes  hastily 
scanned  the  lines,  he  uttered  a  quick  exclamation. 

"What  on  earth  does  she  mean?"  he  cried,  turning 
sharply  to  his  wife. 

"I  could  tell  that  better,  dear,"  she  answered, 
gently,  "if  I  knew  what  she  says." 

"Well,  listen  to  this,"  he  went  on: 

"'DEAR  MR.  WOLLASTON, — I  have  a  wonderful  piece  of 
news  for  you.  I  am  not  going  to  be  a  trouble  to  you  any 
more.  I  am  engaged  to  be  married.  I  shall  tell  you  to 
whom  when  we  meet — that  is,  if  he  has  not  already  done  so. 
With  warmest  love  to  Mrs.  Wollaston,  believe  me,  yours 
ever  affectionately,  AGATHA  ROYAL.' 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"It  depends  on  him,"  Mrs.  Wollaston  answered, 
cautiously.  "If  it's  Paul  Dunster — " 

"  Paul  Dunster  or  anybody  else  will  do  for  me,"  the 
old  man  cried,  with  a  glee  that  a  stranger  would  have 
called  wicked.  "The  man  who  takes  her  off  my 
hands  will  have  my  benediction,  whoever  he  may  be. 
I  never  understood  what  sin  I  had  committed  that 
merited  my  being  saddled  with  other  people's  chil 
dren.  If  it  had  been  boys  I  could  have  borne  it  better. 
But  girls!" 

"You've  only  had  one,  Hector — that  is,  besides 
Persis,  who  is  your  niece." 

"She  couldn't  have  caused  me  more  anxiety  if  she 
had  been  ten." 

"And  her  father  was  your  oldest  friend." 
17 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"He  couldn't  have  served  me  a  worse  turn  if  he  had 
been  my  oldest  enemy." 

"Agatha  is  such  a  sensible  girl,  too,  that  all  you've 
had  to  do  has  been  to  consent  to  the  plans  she  has 
made  for  herself." 

"It  isn't  work  that  breaks  a  man  down,  my  dear; 
it's  responsibility.  She  has  managed  to  take  pretty 
good  care  of  herself;  but  if  anything  had  gone  wrong 
with  her  or  her  money  I  should  have  been  to  blame. 
Now,  at  least,  I  shall  have  some  peace  of  mind. 
We'll  hasten  the  wedding  and  then  I  shall  spend  my 
declining  years  in  a  well-earned  serenity." 

"I  should  think  your  serenity  would  depend  a  good 
deal  on  the  sort  of  man  she  married." 

"No,  no;  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  that. 
She's  twenty -five.  She's  independent.  If  I  could 
pick  out  a  man  and  make  her  fall  in  love  with  him  I 
should  have  done  it  long  ago.  It's  all  one  to  me  if 
she's  taken  a  fancy  to  a  chimney-sweep,  so  long  as 
she  gets  herself  off  my  hands." 

"Of  course,  I  know  you  don't  mean  that,  Hector, 
dear;  and  if  it's  Paul  Dunster — " 

"Then  so  much  the  better.  But  it's  nothing  to 
me." 

"But  if  it  is  he,  it  will  be  an  excellent  match  in 
every  way.  His  family  are  well-established  Old  Cam 
bridge  people;  he  has  a  little  money  and  I  suppose 
his  future  in  the  college  is  secure.  He's  been  very  at 
tentive  to  her  for  some  time  past.  I  should  think  she 
couldn't  do  better." 

"Then  let  us  pray  that  he  may  be  the  man.  He's 
coming  in  to  dinner  to-night  and  I  shall  ask  him." 

"Oh,  don't  do  that,  Hector.  If  it  shouldn't  be  he — " 
18 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"Then  he'd  only  have  to  say  so." 

"But  you  might  be  stumbling  on  something  you'd 
be  sorry  for.  That  isn't  the  way,  dear.  After  all,  it 
may  be  some  one  else,  though  there's  only  one  other 
man  I  can  think  of — Mr.  Anthony  Muir." 

"What?  That  tall  fellow  in  the  English  Depart 
ment?  He's  written  a  book — the  Lord  knows  what — 
that  has  sold  up  in  the  hundreds  of  thousands — the 
Lord  knows  why." 

"It's  a  beautiful  book,  Hector.  I  read  it  while  we 
were  in  the  country.  It's  called  Society  and  Con 
science.  It's  full  of  the  most  striking  passages  and 
the  point  of  view  is  quite  novel." 

"And  people  nowadays  like  what's  novel  better 
than  what's  true." 

"That  isn't  the  case  with  this  book,  Hector,  dear. 
It  really  is  illuminating  on  some  of  the  most  difficult 
problems  of  our  people.  Not  that  it  solves  anything; 
it  is  only  very  suggestive." 

"  I've  looked  into  it,"  the  old  man  admitted,  gruffly. 
"  It's  a  better  book  than  I  thought  any  of  our  present 
brood  of  young  men  could  write,  though  that  isn't 
meant  to  be  high  praise.  There's  something  old- 
fashioned,  too,  in  the  style,  as  if  Longfellow  had  con 
ceived  it  and  Hawthorne  written  it  down  and  Emer 
son  corrected  it  and  made  it  unworthy  of  them  all. 
Old  Pinckney  was  speaking  of  it  the  other  day.  He 
was  very  funny  about  it  in  his  ill-natured  way.  He 
said  it  was  like  a  jelly  made  of  Josiah  Royce  and 
Jacob  Riis  and  John  Graham  Brooks,  so  that  you  get 
the  taste  of  all  three  without  being  able  to  tell  t'other 
from  which." 

"That  doesn't  strike  me  as  very  fair,"  Mrs.  Wollas- 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

ton  said,  in  her  pretty,  serious  way.  "For  my  part, 
I  think  Mr.  Muir  has  something  of  the  seer  in  him, 
just  as  Mr.  Emerson  had.  In  reading  his  book  I 
couldn't  help  feeling  that  we  had  gone  back  to  another 
and  a  better  time.  When  I  first  saw  that  he  was 
rather  taken  up  with  Agatha  I  was  sorry  for  it.  But 
after  I  had  read  the  book —  Why,  how  curious! 
There  he  is  now.  He's  coming  out  of  Radcliffe.  He 
looks  as  if  he  were  walking  to  meet  us." 

As  she  spoke,  a  tall,  young  man,  more  elegantly 
dressed  than  assistant  professors  at  Harvard  usually 
are,  crossed  the  road  near  the  Washington  Elm  and 
came  in  their  direction.  In  his  upright  carriage  and 
springing  step  there  was  something  of  the  confidence, 
and  perhaps  more  of  the  elation,  of  success. 

"He's  good-looking,"  Mrs.  Wollaston  said,  as  they 
watched  him  draw  near.  "You  can  see  he  isn't  a 
thorough  American,  but  any  girl  might  envy  his 
complexion.  I  suppose  it's  Scotch." 

"And  this  is  the  new  prophet,"  the  professor  re 
marked,  with  an  air  of  ironical  criticism.  "He  has 
bright,  blue  eyes  and  a  sweeping,  blond  mustache. 
He  wears  a  frock-coat  of  the  best  cut,  a  sleek  silk  hat 
and  gloves.  He  carries  a  cane  nicely  ornamented 
with  silver  bands,  and  he  swings  it  gracefully  as  he 
walks.  Do  you  remember  the  story  Tennyson  told 
us  of  a  young  friend  of  his  who  liked  Brighton  because 
it  reminded  him  of  Switzerland?  Well,  just  in  the 
same  way  Anthony  Muir  reminds  me  of  Emerson. 
There  never  was  a  prophet,  from  Elijah  the  Tishbite 
downward,  who  was  careful  about  his  clothes." 

"And  yet  Carlyle  says,  'Clothes  have  made  men  of 
us,'"  Mrs.  Wollaston  argued. 

20 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"  But,  my  dear,  he  goes  on  to  say,  'They  are  threat 
ening  to  make  clothes-screens  of  us.'  If  I  hadn't 
looked  into  your  Anthony  Muir's  book  myself,  I 
should  have  put  him  down  as  one  in  whom  the  men 
ace  was  fulfilled." 

"Which  only  shows,"  Mrs.  Wollaston  said,  with 
that  toss  of  the  head  people  had  called  arch  when  she 
was  young,  ' '  to  what  an  extent  the  best  of  men  can 
be  unjust." 

There  was  no  time  to  say  more,  for  Anthony  Muir 
had  already  lifted  his  hat  and  held  out  his  hand.  His 
greetings  were  gracefully  offered ;  and  if  in  his  manner 
there  was,  from  the  American  point  of  view,  a  slight 
degree  of  over-accentuation,  at  least  there  was  no  ex 
cess.  If  he  bowed  more  frequently  and  flexibly  than 
the  average  New-Englander,  he  did  so  with  a  defer 
ence  that  pleased  most  women  and  did  not  annoy 
most  men.  In  approaching  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wollaston 
he  took  command  of  the  situation  with  the  readiness 
of  a  person  for  whom  there  is  no  such  thing  as  social 
awkwardness  and  to  whom  all  the  little  nothings, 
that  make  the  opening  of  conversation  natural,  are 
familiar.  He  was  neither  shy  nor  forward;  he  only 
took  all  the  trouble  upon  himself  and  put  every  one 
immediately  at  his  ease.  Mrs.  Wollaston  liked  his 
manner;  any  woman  would  have  liked  it.  She  could 
not  understand  why  her  husband  should  thrust  out 
his  under-lip  and  rub  his  hands  with  suppressed  irri 
tation  the  minute  the  young  man  spoke. 

"I'm  glad  I've  met  you,  professor,"  Anthony  Muir 
went  on,  fluently,  "because  I  was  on  my  way  to  your 
house." 

"Well,  you  see  I'm  out,"  Mr.Wollaston  said, bluntly. 

21 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"If  you'll  allow  me,"  Muir  went  on,  ignoring  the 
old  man's  incivility,  "I'll  come  round  when  you're  in. 
Perhaps  you  and  Mrs.  Wollaston  could  see  me  a  little 
later  in  the  afternoon.  I've  something  rather  im 
portant  to  say — " 

"Say  it  now,  then,"  the  professor  broke  in,  with  a 
touch  of  impatience.  "We're  not  in  a  hurry.  We 
can  listen." 

"It  won't  take  long,"  Muir  said,  smiling,  with  a 
superior  air  of  patience.  "Miss  Royal  asked  me  to 
tell  you." 

Mrs.  Wollaston  gave  a  little  start  and  slipped  her 
hand  through  her  husband's  arm. 

"She  has  promised  to  become  my  wife,"  Muir  con 
tinued,  with  the  same  ease  of  manner.  "She  will  tell 
you  herself  later,  but  we  thought  it  best  that  I  should 
do  so  first." 

"We're  not  surprised,"  Mr.  Wollaston  admitted, 
promptly.  "My  wife  and  I  were  just  talking  of  it  as 
you  came  up." 

"One  sees  these  little  things  coming,  Mr.  Muir," 
Mrs.  Wollaston  began,  with  the  intention  of  offering 
their  congratulations. 

"And  we  thought  it  would  be  Paul  Dunster,"  the 
old  man  broke  in.  "She  was  fonder  of  him  than  of 
anybody  else." 

"Oh,  Hector!"  Mrs.  Wollaston  interposed. 

"Well,  she  was,"  he  insisted.  "You  said  so  your 
self  not  fifteen  minutes  ago.  You  said  it  was  the 
best  match  she  could  make  and  you  made  me  say  so, 
too.  Mind  you,  Muir,  I've  got  nothing  to  say  in  the 
matter.  I'm  only  just  telling  you  that  your  news  is 
something  of  a  disappointment  to  my  wife." 

22 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

"Please,  Hector,  don't  say  that,"  Mrs.  Wollaston 
pleaded,  almost  with  tears.  "That  wasn't  the  way  I 
meant  it,  Mr.  Muir,  I  beg  you  to  believe.  I  do  like 
Mr.  Dunster,  and  I  admit  that  I  had  thought  of  him 
in  connection  with  Agatha.  But  ever  since  I've  read 
your  book  I've  seemed  to  know  you  so  much  better; 
and  when  I  say  that  I  hope  you  may  both  be  very 
happy,  I  am  sure  you  will  think  me  quite  sincere." 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  he  bowed  over  it  with 
his  usual  grace. 

"Well,  Muir,"  the  professor  said,  with  an  air  of  res 
ignation  to  that  which  he  could  not  help,  "I've  got 
nothing  to  say  in  the  matter.  Agatha  is  of  age. 
She's  free  to  pick  for  herself.  I  neither  make  matches 
nor  mar  them.  I  confess  I've  had  my  mind  made  up 
for  Paul  Dunster  ever  since  I  saw  she  was  so  fond  of 
him;  but  probably  he  didn't  ask  her.  If  she  thinks 
you're  good  enough  to  take  his  place,  I  suppose  you 
are.  Anyhow,  we'll  let  by-gones  be  by-gpnes  and 
say  no  more  about  it.  Old  men's  hopes  are  not  very 
sanguine  at  the  best  and  I  never  expected  Agatha 
Royal  to  display  more  sense  than  the  Lord  had  given 
her." 

"  I  must  thank  you  that  your  objection  to  me  is  no 
stronger  than  it  is,"  Muir  said,  good-naturedly. 

"Oh,  I've  no  objection,  exactly — "  he  began,  but 
this  time  Mrs.  Wollaston  interfered. 

"Won't  you  come  in  and  dine  with  us  at  seven?" 
she  asked,  rather  tremulously.  "Agatha  is  com- 
ing—  " 

"And  so  is  Paul  Dunster,"  the  professor  interposed. 

"Yes,  and  so  is  Mr.  Dunster,"  Mrs.  Wollaston 
echoed,  eager  to  cover  up  her  husband's  lack  of  cour- 

23 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

tesy.  "You'll  like  that,  Hector,  because  then  you 
can  play  bridge.  Agatha  and  Mr.  Dunster  play  beau 
tifully,  and  I'm  sure  Mr.  Muir,  who  does  everything 
so  well—" 

"Oh,  I  can  take  a  hand,"  Muir  laughed.  "It's 
very  often  the  bridge  of  asses  and  oftener  still  the 
bridge  of  sighs,  but  still  I  can  make  a  fourth." 

"Which  neither  Persis  nor  I  can  do,"  Mrs.  Wollas- 
ton  said,  trying  to  make  the  conversation  easy.  "  My 
husband  is  so  fond  of  bridge  that  he  will  be  delighted 
and  you,  too,  will  like  to  see  Agatha.  May  I  ask  if 
we  are  to  keep  the  news  a  secret?" 

"No,    not    now,"    Muir   replied.     "We    naturally 

didn't  tell  anybody  before  you  knew  it,  but  now — " 

.  "Well,  good-bye  for  the  present,"  she  said,  offering 

her  hand   with   a   smile.     "We'll   look   for  you   at 

seven." 

"I'll  come  with  pleasure,  and  very  many  thanks." 

The  professor,  too,  h^ld  out  his  hand. 

"Good-bye,  Muir,  till  this  evening,"  he  said,  stiffly, 
"and  don't  forget  that  I've  got  nothing  to  do  with 
this  business  in  any  way.  I  was  Agatha's  guardian 
till  she  was  twenty-one;  but  I've  no  responsibility  for 
her  now." 

"Of  course  not — of  course  not,"  Muir  murmured, 
politely. 

When  the  old  man  had  turned  away  Mrs.  Wollaston 
took  Muir's  hand  again  and  gave  it  a  little  squeeze. 

"You  mustn't  mind  him,"  she  whispered.  "He 
may  speak  roughly,  but  nobody  in  the  world  has  a 
kinder  heart." 

Then  she,  too,  lilted  away  to  join  her  husband. 


Ill 

[HAT'S  good— that's  good,"  Mr.  Wol- 
laston  chuckled,  as  they  drew  near 
their  own  gate. 

"And  yet  you  didn't  speak  as  if 
you  liked  him  much,"  Mrs.  Wollas- 
ton  said,  with  a  slight  suggestion  of 
reproof. 

"I  haven't  got  to  marry  him.  It  doesn't  matter 
whether  I  like  him  or  not.  The  essential  is  that  some 
one  else  is  going  to  look  after  her  and  I  shall  be 
free." 

"I  wish  we  knew  a  little  more  about  him,"  Mrs. 
Wollaston  sighed.     "As  a  man  he  is  charming  and  as 
a  writer  he  is  quite  unusual." 
"Isn't  that  enough?" 

"Oh  yes,  Hector,  dear.     I  think  every  one  ought 

to  be  judged  on  his  own  merits.     I'm  republican 

enough  for  that.     But  Agatha  belongs  to  a  very  old 

Massachusetts  family  and  so  it  seems  a  pity — " 

"That  any  outsider  should  get  her.     Is  that  it?" 

"Well,  not  exactly,  Hector.     I  only  mean — " 

"  I  know  what  you  mean  and  what  you  haven't  the 

courage  to  say.     You  mean  that  the  old,  intellectual 

aristocracy  of  New  England,  of  which  your  family  and 

mine  form  part,  are  the  Lord's  chosen  people — that 

all  who  are  outside  are  but  Hivites  and  Hittites, 

25 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

whether  they  come  from  California,  Texas,  or  Illi 
nois — " 

"I  don't,  Hector,"  she  protested.  "I  believe  all 
our  people  ought  to  be  admitted  to  the  same  privileges 
as  ourselves.  It  would  make  no  difference  to  me  what 
part  of  the  country  a  man  came  from — not  even  if  it 
was  from  New  York.  I'm  more  broad-minded  than 
you  think.  I  was  only  wishing  that  we  knew  more 
about  Mr.  Muir's  origin  than  we  do." 

"Well,  I  can  tell  you.  His  father  was  Alexander 
Muir,  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  at  the  University 
of  Edinburgh.  He  was  a  remarkable  man  in  his  day, 
and  was  one  of  the  first  of  the  foreign  professors  to 
be  invited  to  this  country  to  deliver  a  course  of  lect 
ures.  At  Ann  Arbor,  I  think  it  was,  he  met  a  young 
Chicago  lady  and  married  her.  That  was  before  the 
days  when  marrying  into  Chicago  meant  marrying 
money.  When  Muir  died,  a  few  years  later,  he  left 
his  widow  nothing  but  a  big  library  and  a  baby. 
She,  poor  soul,  brought  both  of  them  to  Boston.  She 
kept  the  baby  and  sold  the  books.  I  have  some  of 
them  now.  Almost  every  man  in  the  college  has 
some  of  them.  The  baby  grew  up  and  went  brilliant 
ly  through  Harvard  and  is  now  engaged  to  Agatha 
Royal.  I  believe  the  mother  died.  Surely  that's 
enough  to  know  about  any  man." 

"Quite,  Hector,  dear.  You  mustn't  think  I'm 
curious.  I  believe  in  judging  every  man  just  for 
what  he  is.  Only  if  he  has  a  background,  so  to  speak, 
one  likes  to  know  it.  I  should  never  think  the  worse 
of  any  one  because  one  of  his  parents  came  from 
Scotland  and  the  other  from  Chicago.  That  wouldn't 
be  his  fault.  Everybody  can't  be  born  in  Massa- 

26 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

chusetts.  I'm  the  first  to  admit  that.  If  it  wasn't 
that  Mr.  Dunster  was  there,  about  whom  we  know 
everything —  Poor  Mr.  Dunster!"  she  exclaimed,  in 
another  tone.  "I'm  sure  we  ought  to  consider  him- 
Agatha's  engagement  will  be  a  blow  to  him.  I 
wouldn't  for  anything  that  he  should  hear  it  bluntly, 
perhaps  at  dinner  to-night,  or  even  playing  bridge. 
It  would  upset  him  terribly." 

Her  heart  beat  with  a  quicker  flutter,  in  sympathy 
with  the  poor  young  man.  Her  reasons  for  thinking 
him  disappointed  in  his  affections  were  wholly  insuffi 
cient;  but  she  would  not  have  been  a  sweet,  elderly 
lady  with  a  taste  for  sentiment,  had  she  not  believed 
them  sound.  He  had  been  "attentive"  to  Agatha 
the  previous  winter,  and  during  the  summer,  when 
Mrs.  Wollaston  met  him  at  Bar  Harbor,  he  told  her 
he  had  had  a  letter  from  Miss  Royal.  Surely  any 
one  could  see  that  there  was  more  here  than  met  the 
eye ;  especially  when  on  one  side  there  was  a  rich  and 
handsome  girl  of  twenty-five,  and  on  the  other  a 
wholly  eligible  young  man  of  thirty,  who  might  rea 
sonably  be  supposed  to  be  looking  for  a  wife.  Mrs. 
Wollaston  had  no  objection  to  Anthony  Muir;  but  she 
acknowledged  that  as  a  candidate  for  Agatha's  hand 
she  would  have  preferred  Paul  Dunster.  Mr.  Muir's 
origin  seemed  respectable  but  vague,  while  Paul 
Dunster's  family  had  lived  in  Old  Cambridge  ever 
since  Harvard  was  in  its  infancy.  He  had  an  an 
cestress  on  his  mother's  side  who  had  been  burned  for 
witchcraft  at  Salem  and  still  another  on  his  father's 
who  had  been  hanged  on  Boston  Common  for  preach 
ing  Quakerism.  There  was  thus  about  Mr.  Dunster 
a  definiteness  that  Mr.  Muir  seemed  to  lack.  Not  that 

27 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

it  mattered  much,  Mrs.  Wollaston  kept  repeating  to 
herself;  only  that  in  losing  Agatha  Royal  it  would 
be  but  natural  if  Mr.  Dunster  should  feel  that  a  new 
comer  was  taking  from  him  something  to  which  he, 
with  his  New  England  antecedents,  had  a  prior 
claim. 

She  spoke  of  it  to  her  husband  again,  after  he  had 
dressed  for  dinner. 

"He  ought  not  to  be  taken  by  surprise,  poor  fel 
low,"  she  said,  tenderly,  before  they  went  down 
stairs.  "If  you  would  occupy  the  others  for  a  min 
ute,  Hector,  dear — " 

"Then  you'd  tell  him,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  that  was  my  idea.     Just  a  word,  you  know." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  tell  him  myself," 
the  professor  said,  complainingly.  "  I  haven't  broken 
anything  to  any  one  for  a  long  time.  You  seem  to 
think  I've  no  tact." 

"Oh,  Hector!" 

"Yes,  you  do.  You  clip  my  sentences  and  make 
me  seem  to  say  things  I  don't  mean  and  explain  me 
to  people  as  if  I  were  an  edition  published  with  an 
notations." 

"Oh,  Hector!"  Mrs.  Wollaston  said  again,  unable 
to  deny  the  truth  of  her  husband's  allegations. 

"Mr.  Dunster  is  down-stairs,  ma'am,"  the  maid 
announced,  coming  to  the  open  door  of  Mrs.  Wollas- 
ton's  room. 

"Goodness  me!"  exclaimed  the  lady.  "I  sha'n't 
be  ready  for  another  five  minutes,  and  Persis  is  al 
ways  late.  He's  exceedingly  punctual.  It's  only 
striking  seven.  You'll  have  to  go  down,  Hector." 

As  her  husband  gave  a  final  look  at  his  toilet  pre- 
28 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

paratory  to  descending,  she  longed  to  tell  him  to  be 
careful  in  what  he  said;  but  after  his  complaint  of 
a  minute  before  she  did  not  dare.  She  could  only 
go  on  catching  at  invisible  "eyes"  with  clawlike 
"hooks,"  and  pray  that  Mr.  Wollaston  might  be  in 
spired  with  the  gift  of  speech. 

As  he  went  down-stairs  he  felt  that  he  was. 

"Good-evening,  Dunster,"  he  said,  in  his  heartiest 
way.  "You  must  excuse  Mrs.  Wollaston.  She'll  be 
down  in  a  minute.  She  didn't  expect  you  so  early." 

"I  thought  Mrs.  Wollaston  said  seven,"  the  young 
man  ventured,  in  excuse. 

"Quite  so,  quite  so;  that's  all  right.  She  did  say 
seven;  but  when  you  say  seven,  you  know,  you  gen 
erally  expect  to  have  the  traditional  quarter  of  an 
hour's  grace.  My  wife  thought  she'd  get  it  and  so 
she  didn't  hurry.  Glad  to  see  you,  just  the  same. 
Come  into  my  den  and  we'll  have  a  chat.  That's  a 
good  suggestion,"  he  thought,  as  he  took  Dunster's 
coat  and  hung  it  up.  "I'll  give  him  a  glass  of  sherry 
and  thaw  him  out,  if  Fanny  will  only  allow  us  time." 

"I'm  sorry  I'm  so  early,"  Dunster  said,  as  he  pre 
ceded  his  host  into  the  study — a  big,  old-fashioned 
room  with  well-worn  furniture  and  walls  lined  with 
books. 

"No,  no,  no!"  Mr.  Wollaston  exclaimed,  good- 
naturedly.  "I'm  used  to  having  people  on  my 
hands  and  talking  against  time.  You  must  know 
what  it  is  yourself  with  the  students  dropping  in  on 
you  at  all  hours,  from  breakfast  to  bedtime.  Ter 
rible  nuisance,  and  always  has  been.  The  faculty 
ought  to  forbid  it,  'pon  my  word.  There,  sit  down 
in  that  chair.  It's  my  favorite,  but  I  don't  get  it 

29 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

one  time  out  of  ten.  Some  loafer  is  sure  to  drop  into 
it  because  it's  the  best." 

"Oh,  please  don't  let  me  take  it  from  you — "  Dun- 
ster  protested. 

"Sit  down,  sit  down,"  the  professor  insisted,  gently 
pushing  him  into  the  chair.  "I  want  you  to  taste 
this  sherry.  Old  Pinckney  sent  it  to  me,  after  I  had 
taken  some  courses  for  him  when  he  was  ill.  I 
don't  like  sherry  myself,  but  I  keep  this  on  tap  in 
the  cupboard  here  and  dose  people  with  it  when 
I  don't  want  to  talk  to  'em.  It's  a  good  trick. 
I  recommend  it  to  you,  when  your  time  is  taken  up 
with  fellows  who've  got  nothing  to  stay  for  and  don't 
know  how  to  go.  There,  taste  that.  They  all  say 
it's  good,  but  I  suppose  they'd  say  so,  anyhow." 

He  thrust  the  glass  into  Dunster's  hand  and  drew 
up  a  chair.  "I  wish  Fanny  could  see  how  I'm  doing 
it,"  he  said  to  himself.  "She's  one  of  the  women 
who  think  that  when  she  dies  tact  will  die  with  her." 

"This  is  what  I  call  friendly,  Dunster,"  he  said, 
aloud.  "I  hate  to  have  a  man  wait  till  the  last  min 
ute  just  for  the  sake  of  being  polite.  Besides,  I 
wanted  to  see  you  privately." 

"Yes?"  Dunster  said,  looking  at  ease  for  the  first 
time.  "Then  it  won't  matter  that  I'm  so  incon 
veniently  ahead  of  time?" 

He  was  a  stocky,  sturdy  type  of  young  New-Eng- 
lander;  clear-skinned,  clear-eyed,  frank,  and  sincere, 
as  any  one  could  see  at  a  glance.  His  colleagues 
thought  him  literal,  downright,  outspoken  and  too 
pugnacious.  Old  Pinckney  said  of  him  that  if  he 
had  a  difference  of  opinion  with  any  one  he  knocked 
him  down  by  way  of  persuasion.  Something  of  this 

3° 


The    Steps   of  Honor 

was  evident,  even  as  he  sat  in  Mr.  Wollaston's  favor 
ite  chair,  by  the  way  in  which  he  held  his  head,  as  if 
he  had  just  thrown  a  challenge. 

"Yes,"  the  old  man  continued,  in  a  confidential 
tone,  drawing  his  chair  nearer  and  tapping  Dunster 
on  the  knee.  "  I  wanted  a  word  with  you  on  a  very 
particular  bit  of  business." 

Dunster  looked  pleased  and  wondered  if  there  was 
a  chance,  after  all,  of  getting  his  assistant -professor 
ship. 

"You  know  Agatha  Royal,  I  think?" 

"Oh  yes,  quite  well,"  Dunster  replied,  readily, 
though  taken  by  surprise. 

"A  little  more  than  quite  well,  I  understand,"  the 
old  man  said,  with  a  look  that  was  meant  to  be  know 
ing  and,  at  the  same  time,  sympathetic. 

"Possibly,"  Dunster  assented,  with  a  smile.  "Miss 
Royal  has  always  been  very  nice  to  me." 

"She's  a  ward  of  mine.  At  least,  she  was  till  she 
came  of  age." 

"So  I  understood." 

"Well,  that  girl's  been  a  great  disappointment  to 
me — a  great  disappointment." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wollaston,"  Dunster  cried,  his  eyes  wide 
open  with  astonishment,  "I  can't  believe  it." 

"It's  true.  It's  true.  Don't  you  make  any  mis 
take  about  that.  And  she'll  be  a  disappointment  to 
you,  too,  as  much  as  to  me — more  than  to  me." 

"But,  professor,  I  assure  you — " 

"She'd  have  made  your  life  wretched,  Dunster. 
Not  but  what  she's  a  good  girl.  I've  always  allowed 
that—" 

"But,  Mr.  Wollaston,  if  you'll  permit  me — " 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"She  wasn't  the  woman  for  you,  Dunster,  more's  the 
pity.  I'll  admit  that  you're  the  man  I  had  picked  out 
for  her — in  my  own  mind,  that  is  to  say.  Mrs.  Wol- 
laston  had  picked  you  out,  too;  and  she  doesn't  often 
make  a  mistake.  No  later  than  this  afternoon  we 
were  talking  of  what  a  good  match  it  would  be ;  when 
we  saw  that  it  was  out  of  the  question.  If  you  didn't 
ask  her — " 

"I  assure  you  I  didn't;  though — " 

"Then  you  were  behind  time,  so  it's  partly  your 
own  fault.  She's  twenty -five,  and  not  far  from 
twenty -six.  It  wasn't  to  be  supposed  that  she'd 
wait  forever;  you'll  allow  that  yourself.  If  you 
didn't  ask  her,  that's  your  own  lookout.  I'm  less 
disappointed  in  her  than  I  was.  A  woman  can  hardly 
be  expected  to  marry  a  man  who  didn't  ask  her; 
come,  now,  you'll  allow  that's  fair.  But  Mrs.  Wollas- 
ton  and  I  thought  you  had  asked  her,  and  that  she 
hadn't  taken  you  because  you  were  too  short,  or  be 
cause  you  had  a  cast  in  your  eye,  or  from  some  other 
such  woman's  whim.  We  were  talking  of  it  just  be 
fore  you  came.  But  if  you  didn't  ask  her,  that  puts 
another  face  on  it;  so  it  isn't  to  be  wondered  at  that 
she  took  the  man  who  did." 

"You  mean,  sir,  that  Miss  Royal  is  engaged?" 

The  way  in  which  Dunster  grasped  the  arms  of  the 
chair  and  thrust  himself  forward  as  if  he  could  not 
catch  the  answer  quickly  enough,  made  clear  what  he 
would  have  done  if  he  had  had  the  opportunity. 

"Certainly,"  the  professor  said,  rather  stiffly. 
"That's  what  I'm  breaking  to  you." 

"May  I  ask  to  whom?" 

"To  Anthony  Muir." 

32 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"Good  God!"  Dunster  cried,  springing  to  his  feet 
and  growing  pale.  "Good  God,  professor,"  he  re 
peated,  "there's  something  wrong  with  the  man! 
She  can't  marry  him." 

The  professor  rose  too,  almost  pale  in  his  turn. 
Then  there  came  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Wollas- 
ton's  voice  was  heard  without. 

"Hector,  everybody  is  here,  and  dinner  has  been 
announced  long  ago." 


IV 

DON'T  know  what  you  mean,"  Mr. 
Wollaston  whispered.  "Stay  a  min 
ute  after  the  others  have  gone  and 
tell  me." 

"No,    professor,"    Dunster    whis 
pered    back.      "Muir   will    tell    you 
himself." 

"  In  any  case  you've  got  to  dine  with  him  now  and 
play  bridge  with  him  afterwards." 

"Ah!"  Dunster  exclaimed,  with  a  start.  "Is  he 
to  be  here?" 

"Yes,  and  you  must  act  as  if  it  was  all  right.  My 
wife  mustn't  suspect  anything." 

"Are  you  ever  coming,  Hector?"  Mrs.  Wollaston 
called  again. 

"I  won't  betray  anything,"  the  young  man  had 
just  time  to  say,  before  they  passed  out  into  the  hall. 
"Good-evening,  Mrs.  Wollaston." 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Dunster.     Do  excuse  me  for 
being  so  late.     The  fact  is  that  we've  had  important 
news  to-day  and  everything  is  a  little  behindhand." 
"So  your  husband's  just  been  telling  me,"  Dunster 
said,  with  all  necessary  outward  calmness. 

Mrs.  Wollaston  scanned  him  rapidly  and  wondered 
where  men  kept  their  hearts  so  as  to  be  able  to  main 
tain  such  admirable  control  over  their  tones  and  feat- 

34 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

tires.  It  exasperated  her  to  see  a  young  man,  who 
must  be  facing  the  disappointment  of  a  lifetime,  smil 
ing  and  bowing  as  if  nothing  had  occurred.  She 
would  have  despised  him  if  he  had  betrayed  too  much 
emotion;  but  she  thought  a  ruffled  brow  or  a  face 
slightly  drawn  was  the  least  that  could  be  looked  for 
under  all  the  circumstances.  She  was  not  fond  of 
the  theatre,  but  she  liked  a  bit  of  drama  under  her 
own  roof.  It  was,  therefore,  with  a  distinct  sense  of 
satisfaction  that,  a  minute  later,  she  saw  him  offer  his 
hand  to  Muir  with  a  certain  freezing  dignity  and, 
though  he  knew  of  the  engagement,  offer  no  congratu 
lations.  Then  he  passed  on  towards  Agatha. 

She  was  standing  at  the  farther  end  of  the  long, 
old-fashioned  room  —  a  tall,  commanding  figure  in 
black  with  a  chain  of  pearls  falling  around  her  neck 
and  looped  up  at  her  waist. 

"  He  knows,"  whispered  Persis,  who  was  beside  her. 
"  I  can  tell  by  the  effort  he  is  making  to  seem  at  ease." 

"Don't  go,"  Agatha  begged,  as  Persis  moved  away. 
"Don't  leave  me  alone  with  him." 

"I've  just  heard  an  interesting  bit  of  news,"  he 
said,  smiling  tranquilly.  "  I  need  hardly  tell  you  that 
I  hope  you're  going  to  be  happy." 

"Thanks,  Paul,"  she  returned,  in  his  own  tone  of 
quiet  friendliness.  "I  should  have  known  that  you 
wished  me  that." 

"I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Wollaston,  stepping  up, 
"that  I'm  to  have  the  honor  of  leading  the  heroine  of 
the  occasion  in  to  dinner." 

"Mr.  Dunster,  will  you  take  Persis?"  Mrs.  Wollas 
ton  requested,  and  the  little  procession  started  off  re 
gardless  of  any  order  of  precedence. 

35 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"What  I  admired  most  in  your  congratulations  to 
Agatha,  just  now,"  Persis  said  to  Dunster  as  they 
crossed  the  hall  to  the  dining-room,  "was  what  you 
didn't  say." 

Dunster  turned  with  a  quick,  questioning  look  at 
the  slender  girl  in  white  beside  him. 

"That  leaves  you  a  large  field,"  he  laughed.  "I 
didn't  say — a  good  many  things." 

"That  people,  on  such  occasions,  generally  do  say. 
I  wonder  why  you  left  them  out?" 

"If  I  were  you  I  should  let  that  remain  among  the 
unsolved  riddles  of  the  universe." 

"I  couldn't,"  she  answered,  as  she  reached  her  seat. 
"I've  such  a  thirst  for  knowledge." 

At  table  Mrs.  Wollaston  felt  the  situation  painful 
but  romantic.  To  have  the  rivals  one  on  her  right 
hand  and  the  other  on  her  left  placed  her  in  a  difficult 
situation  which  she  enjoyed.  To  be  unobtrusively 
triumphant  with  Muir  and  delicately  sympathetic 
with  Dunster  called  for  just  that  kind  of  tact  for  which 
she  knew  she  had  an  instinct.  She  liked  the  attitude 
of  both  young  men — Muir  quietly  attentive  to  herself, 
and  not  parading  his  victory — Dunster  amiably  talka 
tive  with  Agatha,  and  showing  no  sense  of  his  defeat. 
It  made  her  regret  more  keenly  that  Dunster  had  not 
won  the  prize;  and  yet,  as  her  acquaintance  with  Muir 
progressed,  she  could  not  but  own  that  he  was  the 
man  for  Agatha. 

Of  Agatha  herself  she  was  less  sure.  Had  she  not 
stood  slightly  in  awe  of  her  she  would  have  asked  di 
rectly,  as  Persis  had  done  in  the  morning,  whether 
or  not  she  felt  "the  sense  of  conviction"  which  her 
new  situation  demanded. 

36 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"She's  a  good  girl,"  she  had  said  to  herself  several 
times  during  the  last  two  or  three  hours,  "and  for 
that  very  reason  she's  quite  capable  of  making  a  mar 
riage  in  which  the  heart  would  count  for  less  than  the 
conscience.  I'm  not  sure  that  she  doesn't  belong  to 
that  type  of  New  England  woman  for  whom  moral  ap 
probation  means  more  than  love." 

Now  and  then,  when  Muir  turned  to  talk  to  Persis, 
or  when  the  conversation  became  general,  Mrs.  Wol- 
laston  found  time  to  glance  at  Agatha  with  special  at 
tention.  She  would  have  done  so  in  any  case,  for  a 
newly  engaged  girl  was  always  an  object  that  attract 
ed  her;  but  when  the  girl  was  Agatha  Royal,  whom 
she  had  almost  brought  up,  it  was  natural  that  her  in 
terest  should  be  keen.  Between  the  two  there  was  a 
strong  affection,  tinged  on  Mrs.  Wollaston's  side  with 
the  slightest  shade  of  disapproval.  She  had  often 
said  in  private  to  her  husband  that  but  for  certain 
qualities  Agatha  would  have  been  an  ideal  woman; 
and  the  thought  occurred  to  her  now  as  she  looked  at 
her  across  the  table.  The  small,  proud  head,  with  its 
abundant  dark  hair  simply  parted  and  rippling  away 
from  the  forehead,  was  just  what  Mrs.  Wollaston  liked. 
She  liked,  too,  the  small,  regular  features  that  im 
pressed  the  beholder  by  their  refinement  rather  than 
by  their  beauty.  This  she  held  to  be  the  special  in 
heritance  of  Puritan  women  sprung  from  an  ancestry 
devoted  to  the  good  and  drilled  to  the  suppression  of 
the  sensuous.  That  Agatha  had  practical  feminine  ca 
pabilities  was  also  for  Mrs.  Wollaston  a  cause  of  satis 
faction — a  satisfaction  that  was  not  unmixed  with  pride 
when,  as  often  happened,  Agatha  came  to  seek  counsel 
of  her  own  more  experienced  housewifely  wisdom. 

37 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

All  this  was  excellent.  But  there  were  other  ten 
dencies  in  Agatha's  character  with  which  Mrs.  Wollas- 
ton  was  less  content.  For  instance,  since  she  had  be 
come  her  own  mistress  she  had  manifested  a  taste  for 
elegance  quite  out  of  keeping  with  the  way  in  which 
the  Royals  and  the  Wollastons  had  always  lived. 
Their  standard  had  been  simple,  comfortable  and 
homelike,  without  taking  much  account  of  beauty; 
whereas  Agatha  gave  beauty  a  wholly  ridiculous  im 
portance  both  in  her  person  and  her  surroundings. 
Why  it  should  make  any  difference  whether  a  chair 
was  Empire  or  Louis  Quinze  was  something  Mrs. 
Wollaston  could  never  see;  and  what  Louis  Quinze 
and  Empire  had  to  do  with  a  modest  American  house 
hold  passed,  so  she  said,  her  uttermost  comprehen 
sion.  Her  own  dwelling  had  been  furnished  in  the 
early  sixties,  and  nearly  everything  had  come  from 
Bristol's,  at  that  time  the  best  place  in  Boston ;  and 
no  one,  as  far  as  she  knew,  had  been  other  than  satis 
fied  with  her  heavy  mahoganies  and  coverings  of 
green  rep  with  a  stripe  of  black  and  yellow.  Isaac  and 
Ellen  Royal,  Agatha's  parents,  had  furnished  about 
the  same  time  in  about  the  same  way ;  but  as  soon  as 
Agatha  had  obtained  a  free  hand  she  had  turned 
everything  upside  down  in  order  to  gratify  her  fancies. 
Mrs.  Wollaston  had  looked  on  and  said  nothing;  she 
prided  herself  on  the  extent  to  which  she  could  hold 
her  tongue ;  but  none  the  less  her  heart  was  often  hot 
within  her  and  she  longed  to  give  the  girl  some 
good  advice. 

It  was  the  same  with  Agatha's  taste  in  dress. 
That  it  was  quiet  and  becoming  Mrs.  Wollaston  could 
not  deny;  neither  could  she  deny  that  it  was  expen- 

38 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

sive.  It  followed  the  fashions  to  quite  an  unnecessary 
degree  and  gowns  that  had  been  in  evidence  only  for 
a  spring  or  a  summer  disappeared  in  a  way  Mrs. 
Wollaston  could  never  account  for.  Persis  said  they 
were  discreetly  disposed  of  through  the  Vincent  Club, 
and  that  when  "made  over"  they  enabled  many  a 
struggling  working-girl  to  have  the  pleasure  of  ap 
pearing  at  her  best.  If  this  was  so,  Mrs.  Wollaston 
could  scarcely  criticise ;  and  yet  the  systematic  giving 
away  of  one's  clothes  before  they  were  worn  out  was 
a  form  of  charity  too  audacious  for  her  entire  com 
mendation. 

"Agatha  spends  a  great  deal  of  money  on  her 
clothes,"  she  had  sighed  to  her  husband  one  day  a 
year  or  two  before. 

"Well,  so  do  you,"  had  been  the  unexpected  re 
tort. 

"Oh,  Hector,  how  you  talk!  I  haven't  had  a  new 
dress  since — since  my  last  black  silk." 

"  I  didn't  see  that  you  needed  that.  All  your 
dresses  are  alike.  I  never  can  tell  one  from  another." 

"  I  only  hope  that  Persis  won't  have  the  same 
ideas,"  Mrs.  Wollaston  had  said,  shifting  her  ground. 

"And  I  hope  she  will.  When  Persis  leaves  school 
she  shall  have  a  new  dress  every  time  she  wants 
one." 

"I  know  you're  only  saying  that,  dear.  Fond  as 
you  are  of  Persis,  you're  the  last  person  in  the  world 
to  encourage  her  in  extravagance." 

The  subject  dropped  and  Mrs.  Wollaston  never  took 
it  up  again.  She  was,  indeed,  unwilling  to  call  atten 
tion  to  the  fact  that  she  had  another  black  silk  in 
process  of  construction  at  that  very  moment ;  and  yet 

39 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

she  astonished  her  dress-maker  by  going  next  day  to 
ask  that  it  should  be  "something  new  in  style,  differ 
ent  from  what  I've  had  before,  and  more  striking." 
It  was  still  her  second  best  for  evening  wear  and  she 
had  it  on  to-night.  It  was  slightly  open  at  the  throat 
and  had  white  lace  falling  from  the  shoulders.  Though 
she  would  never  have  owned  to  the  weakness,  she 
wpre  it  rather  than  her  best,  on  this  occasion,  because 
every  one  had  told  her  that  in  it  "she  looked  ten 
years  younger." 

Mrs.  Wollaston  did  not  exactly  disapprove  of  Aga 
tha's  manner  of  dressing,  she  only  wished  it  were  dif 
ferent;  and  she  felt  the  same  about  the  girl's  attitude 
towards  young  men.  Her  way  of  "accepting  atten 
tions"  was  unlike  anything  to  which  Mrs.  Wollaston 
had  been  brought  up.  In  the  early  sixties  a  girl  who 
had  been  distinguished  as  Agatha  had  been  distin 
guished  by  Paul  Dunster  and  Anthony  Muir  would 
have  displayed  a  certain  surprised  modesty.  She 
would  have  shown  herself  nattered,  fluttered,  and 
taken  off  her  guard.  Even  if  she  declined  the  civil 
ities  that  were  offered  her  she  would  have  declined 
them  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  it  clear  that  she  took 
them  for  an  honor.  But  to  Agatha  all  such  things 
were  a  matter  of  course.  She  seemed  not  so  much 
to  expect  them  as  not  to  think  of  them  at  all.  In 
situations  where  Mrs.  Wollaston  in  her  youth  would 
have  been  tingling  with  a  startled,  pleasurable  pride, 
Agatha  manifested  only  a  gracious  indifference. 

"Really,  she  goes  about  the  world  as  if  there  were 
no  such  thing  as  marriage,"  Mrs.  Wollaston  had  re 
marked  to  her  husband  not  long  ago.  "One  would  say 
the  young  men  were  not  worth  a  thought." 

40 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"They're  not,"  he  had  answered,  laconically. 

"They  used  to  be,  Hector." 

"That  was  when  I  was  young,  my  dear." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  she  had  gone  on,  in  her  gently 
sentimental  way,  "that  if  one  has  had  the  fortune 
to — to  inspire  an  emotion,  the  least  one  can  do  is 
to  treat  it  tenderly." 

"  Don't  you  worry  about  that,"  he  had  advised  her. 
"The  young  men  of  to-day  can  take  very  good  care 
of  themselves.  They're  not  inspired  with  emotions 
until  they  are  ready  for  them.  Even  then  they  take 
only  as  much  as  they  can  stand,  as  a  wise  toper  does 
with  his  glass." 

Mrs.  Wollaston  had  not  agreed  with  this  cynical 
view  of  life  and  did  not  now.  As  she  looked  at  Paul 
Dunster  she  knew  he  was  suffering  as  keenly  as  any 
old-time  lover  in  romance.  That  he  should  be  able 
to  talk  pleasantly  with  Agatha  and  jest  with  Persis 
and  return  an  answer  to  the  professor's  jibes  was 
all  the  nobler.  Mrs.  Wollaston  felt  that  he  had 
taken  her  lead  and  was  doing  his  best  to  help  in 
carrying  off  a  difficult  situation.  As  dinner  drew 
towards  the  end  she  began  to  congratulate  herself 
that  nothing  had  been  said  that  could  hurt  Mr. 
Dunster's  feelings  in  any  way.  Agatha  had  be 
haved  splendidly  and  so  had  Mr.  Muir.  Persis  had 
shown  an  unusual  discretion,  while  Hector  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  that  an  engagement  had  taken 
place. 

It  was  when  the  fruit  was  being  passed  and  Agatha 
had  put  out  her  hand  to  take  a  peach,  that  the  bolt 
was  shot  from  the  blue. 

"What's  that  ring  you've  got  on?"  the  professor 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

asked,  suddenly.  "Diamonds?  I  thought  an  un 
married  woman  shouldn't  wear  diamonds." 

The  three  ladies  exchanged  quick  and  comprehend 
ing  glances.  Dunster  turned  to  look  at  the  ring. 
Muir  smiled  to  himself  and  went  on  peeling  a  pear. 

"Girls  wear  anything  nowadays,  Hector,"  Mrs. 
Wollaston  explained,  hastily. 

"And  Agatha  is  so  soon  to  be  married,"  Dunster 
laughed,  rather  forcedly,  "that  I  should  think  she 
could  wear  all  the  diamonds  she  liked." 

"Let  me  see  it,"  Mr.  Wollaston  persisted,  taking 
Agatha's  hand  and  holding  it  up.  "It's  a  new  one, 
isn't  it?  I  don't  remember  having  seen  it  before." 

"I  only  got  it  to-day,"  she  laughed. 

"How  much?" 

"I  didn't  buy  it,"  she  laughed  again. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Hector,"  Persis  broke  in,  boldly,  "do 
let  her  alone.  It's  her  engagement-ring." 

Mrs.  Wollaston  knew  that  for  her  it  was  a  moment 
in  which  to  dash  in  and  save  the  situation. 

"That  reminds  me,"  she  said,  turning  to  Muir, 
"that  I've  never  told  you  how  much  I  like  your  book. 
I  read  it  while  we  were  in  the  country,  and  told  my 
husband  that  I  thought  it  a  most  ennobling  work. 
Didn't  I,  Hector?" 

"Yes,  she  did,  Muir,"  the  old  man  corroborated. 
"She  praised  it  up  so  much  that  I  could  hardly  be 
lieve  it  yours." 

"You  mustn't  mind  that  compliment,  Mr.  Muir," 
said  Persis.  "That's  nothing  to  what  Uncle  Hector 
can  do  when  he's  in  a  really  good  humor." 

"Don't  be  anxious  on  my  account,  Miss  Wollas 
ton,"  Muir  rejoined,  with  an  easy  laugh.  "  No  writer 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

ought  to  be  equal  to  his  own  books,  otherwise  he 
would  always  be  standing  with  his  best  foot  fore 
most." 

"In  an  attitude  naturally  painful,"  Agatha  added. 

"A  man  who  writes  a  book,"  said  Dunster,  more 
gravely  than  he  had  spoken  hitherto,  "should  at  least 
give  to  the  world  nothing  but  what's  his  own.  And 
he  shouldn't  pass  off  as  his  own  what  belongs  to 
some  one  else." 

Muir  glanced  up  quickly  and  seemed  about  to 
speak,  but  he  ended  in  saying  nothing. 

"That's  a  hard  question,"  Mr.  Wollaston  argued, 
taking  the  subject  up.  "It's  sometimes  difficult  to 
decide  as  to  what  belongs  to  a  man  and  what  doesn't. 
I've  often  heard  Emerson  say  that  originality  con 
sists  in  making  another  man's  thoughts  one's  own 
and  giving  them  a  new  application." 

"Quite  so,"  Dunster  agreed.  "Ideas  once  offered 
to  the  world  become  common  property.  But  each 
person  who  puts  them  forth  should  stamp  them  with 
the  impress  of  himself.  Otherwise  they're  borrowed, 
if  not  stolen.  The  same  bit  of  gold  may  pass  through 
many  mints,  but  each  time  it  comes  out  it  is  a  differ 
ent  sort  of  coin." 

"That's  what  struck  me  about  Mr.  Muir's  book," 
said  Mrs.  Wollaston,  who  disliked  discussion  in  the 
abstract.  "  It  was  so  like  him.  As  I  read  it  I  could 
almost  hear  him  speak." 

"I  don't  see  how  that  could  have  been,"  the  pro 
fessor  objected.  "You  never  heard  Muir  say  twenty 
words  until  we  met  him  this  afternoon  and  you  asked 
him  to  come  in  to  dinner." 

"That  may  be  so,"  she  acknowledged,  promptly, 
43 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"but  I  knew  he  would  have  spoken  that  way  if  I 
had  heard  him." 

Paul  Dunster  leaned  across  Mrs.  Wollaston  and 
looked  at  Muir  a  few  seconds  without  speaking. 

"Muir,"  he  began,  in  a  tone  that  drew  every  one's 
attention,  "did  you  ever  read  a  book  on  the  same  sub 
ject  as  your  own  by  a  Scotchman  named  Christopher 
Love?" 

Again  Muir  looked  up  with  a  quick  glance,  but  he 
answered,  readily: 

"No.     Why?" 

"Because  there  were  things  in  your  book  that  re 
minded  me  of  his." 

"I  never  heard  of  him,"  said  Muir.  "Is  he  a  new 
man?" 

"His  book  was  published  in  1831.  It  is  entitled 
A  Treatise  on  the  Human  Conscience:  Its  Relation  to 
Revealed  Religion;  and  Its  Influence  on  the  Social  Life 
of  Men.  I  suppose  it  must  have  come  into  the  world 
top-heavy  from  its  title,  for  it  seems  to  have  fallen 
very  flat.  The  only  copy  I  ever  saw  is  that  in  my 
own  possession.  It  came,  I  think,  from  your  father's 
library,  and  bears  the  inscription,  'Andrew  Muir, 
Edinburgh,  1831.'" 

"That  was  my  grandfather.  I  know  my  father 
had  some  of  his  books." 

"I'll  send  it  to  you,"  Dunster  went  on,  "if  you 
would  care  to  see  it.  But  I  should  like  to  have  it 
back." 

"Thanks,"  Muir  responded,  indifferently.  "Don't 
take  the  trouble.  Some  day  when  I'm  over  at  Cal- 
verley  Hall  I'll  run  in  to  your  room  and  take  a  look 
at  it." 

44 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

"Christopher  Love,"  Mrs.  Wollaston  commented. 
"What  an  odd  name!  It  doesn't  seem  at  all  suited 
to  a  philosopher." 

"Perhaps  it  was  only  a  nom  de  plume  like  Chris 
topher  North,"  Agatha  suggested. 

"No  doubt  Muir  can  tell  us,"  said  Dunster. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't,"  Muir  answered.  "I've  just 
said  that  I've  never  heard  it  before." 

"You  did,"  Dunster  persisted;  "but  I  thought  you 
might  have  recollected  since.  Names  like  that  come 
back  to  one." 

"So  they  do,"  Persis  agreed.  "I  should  make  it 
the  title  for  a  novel.  Christopher  Love,  by — by — " 

"By  Paul  Dunster,"  Muir  said,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Edited  by  Anthony  Muir,"  Dunster  rejoined,  with 
out  laughing;  and  then  the  conversation  took  an 
other  turn. 

Dinner  was  finished  and  bridge  was  played.  Aga 
tha's  carriage  came  for  her  and  she  went  away  early. 
Muir  lingered,  but  Dunster  lingered  too.  In  the  end 
they  left  together. 

"You're  not  going  my  way,"  Muir  said,  when  the 
door  had  closed  behind  them.  "I'll  say  good-night 
to  you  here." 

"No;  I'll  walk  a  bit  with  you,  if  you  don't  object," 
Dunster  answered.  "I  want  a  word  with  you  about 
a  matter  that  I've  had  on  my  mind  for  some  days 
past." 

"All  right,"  Muir  agreed.  "I'm  going  straight  to 
Westmorland  Hall.  It  '11  take  you  out  of  your  way, 
but— " 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  said  Dunster,  as  he  lit  a 
cigarette. 

45 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

He  offered  one  to  Muir,  who  declined  it,  and  they 
set  out  slowly  to  walk  across  the  Common. 

"I've  just  heard,"  Dunster  began,  after  a  minute's 
hesitation,  "that  you're  engaged  to  Miss  Royal." 

"I  am." 

"Then  I  want  you  to  drop  it." 

"  Did  you  say  to  drop  it  or  to  drop  you?"  Muir  said, 
quietly. 

"I  mean  that  I  want  you  to  withdraw  from  your 
engagement  to  Miss  Royal." 

"In  your  favor?"  Muir  inquired,  with  a  short 
laugh. 

"  No — not  in  my  favor.  I've  no  pretensions  of  that 
kind.  I'm  not  thinking  of  myself — but  of  her — and 
you." 

"Thank  you  for  your  interest,  Dunster;  but,  as  is 
hardly  necessary  to  assure  you,  Miss  Royal  and  I  can 
do  without  it." 

"And  yet  I'm  going  to  thrust  it  on  you." 

"Look  here,  Dunster,"  Muir  exclaimed,  stopping 
in  his  walk  and  wheeling  round,  "what  are  you  driv 
ing  at?  Any  other  man  in  my  position  would  tell 
you  to  go  to  the  devil,  for  a  damned,  impertinent  ass. 
He'd  say  you  were  drunk;  but  I  prefer  to  think  you 
crazy.  What  are  you  up  to?  What  do  you  mean? 
What  have  you  been  staring  at  me  all  the  evening 
for?  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  can  make  you  out." 

"I  mean  nothing  but  what  I  say — that  you  must 
give  up  Miss  Royal." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"No,  it  isn't  all.  You  must  go  away  from  Har 
vard." 

"Anything  else?" 

46 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"Nothing  that  I  care  about.  So  long  as  you  do 
those  two  things  I  shall  be  satisfied.  I  sha'n't  mind 
it,  even  if  you  go  on  foisting  on  the  public  other  peo 
ple's  books." 

Muir  laughed  again,  in  a  short,  hard  way,  and  began 
moving  on. 

"I  can't  get  out  of  temper  with  you,  Dunster," 
he  said,  in  a  tone  in  which  astonishment  seemed  to 
struggle  with  amusement.  "You've  been  working 
too  hard,  or  you've  been  taking  drugs.  I've  heard 
you  suffered  from  insomnia.  You  must  be  mentally 
unhinged." 

"Don't  try  to  bluff  me,  Muir.  I'm  not  making 
a  scene.  I'm  putting  it  to  you  quietly.  Get  out, 
where  no  one  will  hear  of  you  again  and  I  give  you 
my  word  of  honor  that  you  shall  never  hear  of  me. 
You  may  get  a  place  in  one  of  the  Western  colleges; 
it's  always  a  recommendation  to  a  man  to  have  taught 
at  Harvard.  If  you  do  get  one,  I'll  leave  you  alone, 
I  promise  you.  I  sha'n't  split  on  you  or  utter  a  sus 
picion.  All  I  ask  of  you  is  that  you  give  up  Miss 
Royal  and — get  out." 

"  You're  modest  in  your  demands,  Dunster,  and,  for 
aught  I  know,  you  may  be  merciful.  If  I  only  had 
an  inkling  of  what  you  mean  I  might  feel  in  a  more 
obliging  frame  of  mind  towards  you." 

"  If  that's  all  you  need,  I'll  tell  you ;  though  I  can't 
give  you  any  information  that  you  don't  possess. 
The  book  of  which  you've  sold  over  a  hundred  thou 
sand  copies  you  practically  stole  from  an  author  un 
read  in  his  lifetime  and  dead  and  gone  and  forgotten 
now,  by  the  name  of  Christopher  Love." 

Muir  gave  a  long,  low  whistle. 
47 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"So  that's  it,  Dunster,  eh?  A  little  bit  of  profes 
sional  jealousy.  Really,  I'm  rather  ashamed  of  you; 
for,  after  all,  you're  a  Harvard  man,  and  belong  to  the 
English  Department.  But  I  give  you  a  bit  of  advice : 
don't  make  yourself  a  reputation  for  trumping  up 
charges  of  plagiarism  against  men  who've  beaten  you 
in  the  field  where  you've  tried  to  make  a  name.  In 
the  long  run  it  doesn't  pay.  There's  a  man  in  Chica 
go,  I  believe,  who  says  that  Rostand  stole  from  him 
Cyrano  de  Bergerac;  but  I  never  heard  that  it  took 
one  laurel  leaf  from  Rostand's  crown." 

It  was  now  Dunster's  turn  to  stop. 

"I've  got  the  name  of  being  quarrelsome,"  he  said, 
in  a  voice  trembling  with  the  effort  to  keep  his  self- 
control,  "and  perhaps  I  deserve  it.  But  I'm  not  go 
ing  to  quarrel  now.  I  repeat  only  what  I've  said — 
that  into  the  work  you  call  yours  you've  put  only  the 
modification  of  a  book  published  in  1831.  You've 
made  it  more  modern  and  more  sentimental;  you've 
introduced  into  it  some  odds  and  ends  from  Spencer 
and  Lecky  and  Jacob  Riis  and  Phillips  Brooks. 
You've  made  an  excellent  compilation,  but  the  ma 
terial  isn't  yours." 

"Don't  you  remember  what  was  said  at  dinner? 
That  originality  consists  in  taking  ideas  from  the 
common  stock  and  working  them  up  in  your  own 
way.  Be  reasonable,  Dunster.  If  it  comes  to  that, 
you're  a  plagiarist  yourself.  In  every  lecture  you 
give  you're  only  repeating  what  you've  picked  up 
here  and  there.  When  I  wrote  Society  and  Conscience 
I  never  supposed  that  nobody  had  ever  expressed 
those  thoughts  before.  It's  true  that  I  gave  them  a 
new  twist — " 

48 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"Oh  no,  you  didn't,  Muir,"  Dunster  interrupted. 
"You  copied  them  out  just  as  they  were.  Literary 
theft  may  not  exist  for  ideas,  but  it  is  concerned  with 
words.  In  your  book  there  are  not  only  paragraphs, 
but  whole  pages  taken  from  Christopher  Love.  No 
one  but  a  fool  would  have  done  it.  You  must  have 
been  mad  to  suppose  that  some  one  wouldn't  recog 
nize  them.  I  don't  suppose  that  I'm  the  only  one. 
It  was  your  title  for  Section  III. — '  The  Hebrew  Con 
science  ' — that  first  startled  me.  I  recalled  it  from  the 
old  book  into  which  I  had  dipped  from  time  to  time. 
When  I  turned  to  it  there  was  not  only  the  same  title 
but  the  same  words.  The  Hebrew  quotations  and 
authorities  were  the  same.  A  curious  mistake  was 
copied  out  just  as  it  stood.  Line  after  line,  for  pages, 
there  was  not  the  difference  of  a  comma.  I  saw  at  a 
flash  that  you  couldn't  have  written  a  chapter  like 
that.  It's  out  of  your  beat.  You  haven't  the  in 
formation.  You  did  the  same  with  Section  V. — '  The 
Platonic  Conscience.'  I  put  the  two  side  by  side  and 
read  them  together.  You  did  the  same  throughout 
the  book.  At  a  guess  I  should  say  that  a  good  third 
was  copied  as  it  stood  from  Christopher  Love,  with 
only  the  change  of  a  bit  of  antiquated  phraseology 
here  and  there.  On  the  strength  of  that  book  you've 
made  a  reputation.  On  the  strength  of  that  book 
the  noblest  woman  in  the  world  has  come  to  think 
you  a  remarkable  man  and  is  going  to  marry  you. 
On  the  strength  of  that  book  you're  reaping  honor 
that  isn't  yours  and  pocketing  money  that  doesn't 
belong  to  you.  And  the  whole  thing  is  a  lie.  Give 
it  up,  Muir.  You're  in  an  impossible  position.  Get 
out  from  here  and  save  yourself  while  you  can." 
4  49 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"And  if  I  don't?" 

"Then,  by  God,  I'll  make  you!  I'll  tear  the  heart 
out  of  your  lying  book  and  expose  it  to  the  world. 
There's  nothing  easier.  I've  only  to  publish  twenty- 
pages  of  old  Christopher  Love  and  the  trick  is  done. 
I  tell  you,  Muir,  you  have  only  to  accept  my  condi 
tions.  Give  up  Miss  Royal  and  get  out.  Steal  away, 
sneak  away,  hide  yourself,  or  else  stand  your  ground 
till  you're  driven  out.  You've  no  other  course." 

"Oh  yes,  I  have,  Dunster,"  Muir  said,  with  an  easy 
laugh.  "It  is  to  let  you  do  your  little  worst  and  be 
blown  away  by  the  tempest  that  you  yourself  will 
have  conjured  up.  There's  no  funnier  man  on  earth 
than  the  discoverer  of  mare's-nests  and  he's  all  the 
funnier  when  he's  a  foolish,  blustering  little  chap  like 
you.  Bluster  away,  good  Dunster.  If  it  doesn't 
bring  you  fame,  it  will  help  you,  at  least,  to  a  bit  of 
notoriety.  Now,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  I'll  wish  you  a 
courteous  good-night." 

So  saying,  Muir  turned  on  his  heel  and  disappeared 
in  the  shadow  of  the  trees.  For  a  minute  Dunster 
stood  still  where  Muir  had  left  him.  He  clinched 
his  fists  and  bit  his  lips  with  suppressed  anger. 

"By  God,  I'll  make  him  do  it!  I'll  make  him  do 
it!"  he  muttered  two  or  three  times  to  himself.  Then 
he,  too,  started  off  through  the  darkness  on  his  way 
to  his  rooms  in  Calverley. 


[ARLY  next  morning  Miss  Agatha 
Royal  was  on  her  way  up  Brattle 
Street  to  the  house  of  Cousin  Abby 
Leggett.  This  was  in  execution  of  a 
plan  long  ago  decided  on.  Ever  since 
Agatha  had  taken  up  her  residence  in 
her  own  house,  Mrs.  Wollaston  had  urged  on  her  the 
necessity  of  having  some  older  woman  to  live  with  her. 
Agatha  had  smiled  and  agreed,  but  had  done  noth 
ing.  Mrs.  Wollaston  had  pointed  out  that  Providence 
seemed  to  have  created  Cousin  Abby  Leggett  —  a 
single  woman  with  small  means  and  no  duties — ex 
pressly  to  be  such  a  protectress  as  Agatha  stood  in  need 
of.  Again  Agatha  had  smiled  and  acquiesced;  but 
the  years  rolled  by  and  she  was  still  companionless. 

"You  must  be  lonely,"  Mrs.  Wollaston  often  in 
sisted. 

"No,"  Agatha  would  reply. 

"And  then  if  young  men  should  come  to  the  house?" 
"Oh,  but  they  don't,"  Agatha  would  answer,  and 
the  subject  would  drop  fruitlessly  again. 

Now,  however,  circumstances  were  changed.  Aga 
tha  had  reached  the  moment  she  had  foreseen.  If 
young  men  ever  should  come  to  the  house — one  young 
man  especially — she  knew  she  would  be  obliged  to 
call  in  the  aid  of  Cousin  Abby  Leggett.  She  reasoned 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

that  it  was  a  little  ridiculous  that  it  should  be  so  and 
yet  she  yielded  to  the  instinct  which  told  her  that 
Anthony  Muir  would  be  freer  to  come  and  go  if  Cousin 
Abby  Leggett  were  there. 

Agatha  walked  slowly,  thinking  out  the  new,  small 
problems  of  her  existence.  It  was  a  mellow  October 
morning,  full  of  peace  and  sunshine.  Birds  were 
flitting  about  her;  a  few  late  fruits  still  hung  on  the 
trees;  dahlias,  zinnias  and  chrysanthemums  were 
brilliant  in  the  gardens;  here  and  there  an  immense 
hydrangea-bush  was  a  mass  of  mystic  blue.  If  you 
know  Brattle  Street  you  will  recognize  it  at  once  as  a 
fitting  background  for  quiet  thoughts.  There  is 
something  in  its  leisurely  winding — like  that  of  a 
river  meandering  through  a  meadow — in  its  lawns, 
in  its  banks  of  shrubs,  in  its  elms  arching  like  cathe 
dral  aisles,  in  its  comfortable,  widely  separated 
houses  and  in  its  memories  of  other  days  that  en 
courages  meditation.  As  the  Thames  rises  amid  gar 
dens  and  amid  gardens  flows  towards  the  sea,  so 
Brattle  Street  rises  among  college  halls  and  glides  its 
quiet  way  along  amid  homes  of  leisure  and  learning 
till  it  loses  itself  in  the  fields.  It  is  a  street  that  has 
made  history,  as  the  Corso  and  Whitehall  and  the 
Rue  St.  Honor^  have  made  history.  Here,  you  say 
as  you  go  by,  the  stately  colonial  gentlemen  built  up 
Tory  Row ;  here  they  fought  for  a  lost  cause ;  here  they 
listened  to  the  guns  of  Lexington  and  hence  they 
fled.  In  this  house  the  Vassalls  lived,  in  this  house 
the  Lees;  in  this  house  Riedesel  was  a  prisoner;  in 
this  house  Washington  and  his  wife  kept  simple  court 
and  Longfellow  spent  his  life;  in  this  house  Lowell 
was  born  and  died. 

52 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

Agatha  was  not  thinking  of  her  surroundings  as 
she  walked  along,  but  none  the  less  they  soothed  her. 
She  felt  they  stood  for  the  best  things.  She  felt  the 
same  of  the  whole  trend  of  life  in  Old  Cambridge.  It 
was  a  satisfaction  to  her  to  belong  to  it.  She  was 
glad  to  have  inherited  its  traditions — traditions  of 
learning,  high-mindedness  and  practical  idealism. 

"You  would  be  worldly  if  you  didn't  live  in  Cam 
bridge,"  Mrs.  Wollaston  had  said  to  her  once  or  twice 
and  Agatha  admitted  that  the  remark  was  just.  She 
knew  that  the  atmosphere  of  good  living  in  which  she 
had  grown  up  had  counteracted  a  certain  love  of 
pleasure  she  recognized  in  herself.  When  Mr.  Wol 
laston  said,  as  he  was  fond  of  saying,  "Cambridge 
keeps  the  nation's  conscience,"  she  felt  proud  of  hav 
ing  even  the  humblest  part  in  so  responsible  a  task. 
She  liked  to  remember,  also,  a  remark  by  Anthony 
Muir,  in  that  "  Section  "  of  his  book  in  which  he  treats 
of  the  sense  of  moral  responsibility  among  Ameri 
cans.  "Cambridge,"  he  says,  "takes  the  ore  of  the 
nation's  material  effort  and  crushes  out  the  gold." 
She  admired  these  sentiments.  She  felt  it  a  privilege 
to  belong  to  a  community  in  which  high  thinking 
was  still  the  ruling  impulse,  even  though  plain  living 
was  to  some  extent  given  up. 

It  was  high  thinking  that  had  first  attracted  her 
in  Muir.  She  had  known  him  a  year  or  two  as  a  clever 
young  man  whom  she  was  likely  to  meet  at  a  dinner 
or  a  dance.  He  was  one  of  the  few  men  at  Harvard 
who  went  much  into  society  in  Boston.  He  talked 
well  and  danced  well  and  was  very  good-looking.  It 
was  always  a  pleasure  to  her  to  meet  him,  but  she  did 
not  at  first  connect  him  with  the  more  serious  things 

S3 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

in  life.  It  was  not  until  his  book  had  appeared  in 
the  previous  winter  that  she  saw  how  profound  a 
study  he  had  made  of  the  social  and  moral  problems 
of  the  day.  His  view  was  broad,  his  grasp  was  firm, 
and  over  every  topic  on  which  he  touched,  from  prim 
itive  ethics  to  Pennsylvania  coal-strikes,  he  threw 
the  charm  of  a  style  simple,  dignified  and  direct. 
Dry  subjects  had  never  before  been  turned  into  such 
easy  reading.  Society  and  Conscience  was  in  demand 
at  all  the  public  libraries  and  in  all  the  women's 
clubs.  Ladies  who  gave  lectures  in  drawing-rooms 
made  it  the  subject  of  their  "talks"  and  clergymen 
commended  from  the  pulpit  that  earlier  portion  of 
the  work  in  which  the  origin  and  development  of 
conscience  as  a  directing  force  in  life  is  so  wonder 
fully  depicted. 

It  was  in  vain  that  the  National  and  other  serious 
reviews  called  it  an  industrious  second-hand  accom 
plishment;  it  was  in  vain  that  Muir's  Harvard  col 
leagues  spoke  of  it  as  "an  appeal  to  the  half-edu 
cated";  Society  and  Conscience  pleased  the  public, 
which  is  no  small  thing  to  do  and  passed  with  many 
for  an  ennobling  if  not  an  epoch-making  work. 

The  sympathy  Agatha  had  hitherto  felt  for  Muir,  on 
the  ground  that  whatever  he  did  he  did  well,  now  took 
a  more  serious  turn.  When  she  saw  that  the  man  who 
danced  so  divinely  could  quote  Hebrew  like  an  ancient 
prophet  she  naturally  drew  the  conclusion  that  he 
was  unusual.  When  she  understood  that  the  aim  of 
his  life  was  to  elevate  the  poor  and  purify  the  rich  and 
lift  the  whole  tone  of  American  life  to  the  highest 
plane,  she  knew  he  had  the  same  aspirations  as  her 
self.  When  they  met  it  was  inevitable  that  they 

54 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

should  speak  of  the  subjects  both  of  them  had  at 
heart  and  so  be  drawn  closer  together.  Agatha  found 
Muir's  conversation  a  positive  stimulation  after  the 
inanities  of  other  young  men.  She  read  books  on' 
social  topics  in  order  to  keep  pace  with  him.  She 
broadened  her  lines  of  study  so  as  to  understand 
something  of  the  difficulties  between  labor  and  capital, 
of  civil-service  reform,  and  of  the  housing  of  the  poor. 
When  she  did  not  understand,  it  was  Muir's  oppor 
tunity  to  explain.  He  explained  well.  He  not  only 
made  a  subject  clear,  but,  in  the  most  delicate  fashion, 
he  turned  the  dull  and  abstract  into  the  personal  and 
warm.  Agatha  came  to  look  up  to  him  as  she  had 
never  expected  to  look  up  to  any  man.  Little  by 
little  she  learned  to  think  of  him  as  one  to  whom  she 
could  submit  herself. 

' '  Agatha  must  marry  either  a  strong  man  who  will 
master  her,  or  a  weak  one  whom  she  can  master,"  had 
been  Mrs.  Wollaston's  often-expressed  opinion;  and 
now  the  strong  man  seemed  to  have  come.  When  he 
confided  to  her  his  plans  for  the  new  book  he  was 
sketching  out  she  took  the  action  for  an  honor;  when 
he  asked  her  advice  on  this  point  or  that,  she  felt  that 
life  could  offer  no  greater  privilege  than  to  help  such 
a  man  in  his  tasks.  After  that  the  rest  had  come  as  a 
matter  of  course  and  so,  when,  two  days  ago,  Muir 
had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife,  she  had  only  one  answer 
to  give.  It  seemed  to  her  that  such  a  marriage  offered 
her  not  only  happiness,  but  the  chance  of  being  use 
ful.  To  marry  for  happiness  alone  would  have  fallen 
short  of  her  gracefully  Puritan  ideal.  So,  as  she  en 
tered  Cousin  Abby  Leggett's  modest,  semi-detached 
dwelling  in  Riedesel  Avenue,  Agatha  was  content  both 

55 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

with  the  present  moment  and  with  the  future  she  saw 
shaping  itself  before  her. 

She  found  Cousin  Abby,  shrouded  in  a  large,  white 
apron,  in  the  act  of  dusting  her  East  India  china  and 
old,  carved,  colonial  furniture.  After  the  first  greet 
ings  had  been  exchanged  and  they  had  sat  down, 
Agatha  plunged  into  her  subject  by  saying  she  had 
come  to  invite  her  kinswoman  to  pay  her  a  long  visit. 

"Of  course  I'll  come,"  Miss  Leggett  said  at  once. 
She  cooed  the  words  out  of  a  luxuriantly  double  chin 
and  gave  them  a  tone  of  rich,  comforting  assurance. 
She  was  a  Juno-like  person  in  whom  stateliness  was 
softened  by  an  air  of  brisk  and  motherly  competence. 
She  was  one  of  the  few  persons  of  whom  Agatha  was 
afraid.  Her  commanding  ways  would  have  made  her 
a  person  of  importance  even  if  she  had  not  been  one 
of  the  Salem  Leggetts.  This  last  fact  not  only  gave 
her  a  patent  of  nobility  no  one  could  dispute,  but  also 
entitled  her  to  speak  her  mind  with  a  freedom  impossi 
ble  to  any  one  with  a  less  distinguished  circle  of  kin 
ship.  No  one  in  Massachusetts,  she  was  accustomed 
to  boast,  had  more  relations,  or  was  oftener  in  mourn 
ing,  than  herself.  She  was  cousin  to  the  Royals  as 
well  as  to  the  Wollastons  and  old  families  that  had 
no  other  connecting  link  found  one  in  her. 

"Of  course  I'll  come,"  she  repeated.  "I've  often 
wondered  why  you  didn't  ask  me  before." 

"I  wish  I  had,"  Agatha  acknowledged,  readily. 

"For  a  young  girl  like  you  to  live  alone  couldn't 
but  be  distressing  to  her  friends,  whatever  it  may 
have  been  to  herself." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  do  it  always,"  Agatha  said,  in 
self -excuse. 

56 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"I  should  hope  not.  Your  poor  father  would 
never  have  allowed  it,  nor  your  poor  mother,  either." 

"I  didn't  know  that,"  Agatha  pleaded,  again. 

"Well,  I  did,"  Cousin  Abby  declared.  "I've  often 
wondered  what  Cousin  Fanny  Wollaston  could  be 
thinking  of  not  to  have  spoken  to  you  about  it." 

"Mrs.  Wollaston  wasn't  to  blame.  She  did  speak 
of  it,  but  I  suppose  I  was  headstrong.  In  any  case, 
Cousin  Abby,"  she  continued,  looking  up  with  an  ap 
pealing  smile,  "you  see  I've  repented  and  so  I  hope 
you'll  come  and  stand  by  me  till — till — " 

"Till  what?     Out  with  it." 

"Till  a  very  trying  ceremony  is  over." 

"Ah,  that's  it!"  Miss  Leggett  cried,  in  her  rich  con 
tralto.  "So  I'm  to  come  and  throw  the  shield  of  my 
respectability  over  a  questionable  situation.  I'm  a 
foolish  old  woman,  otherwise  I  should  refuse.  You 
invite  me  not  from  love,  but  from  necessity,  and  if  I 
were  to  serve  you  right — " 

"I  knew  you'd  be  too  good  to  do  that,"  Agatha 
slipped  in. 

"It's  well  for  you  that  I  am.  I  will  come  and  I'll 
watch  my  chance  to  punish  you  in  some  other  way. 
Now,  who  is  it  to  be  to?"  she  asked,  ungrammatically. 
"But  I  suppose  I  know  that  already.  Cousin  Mary 
Dunster  has  been  counting  on  it  for  some  time." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that,"  Agatha  exclaimed,  hurriedly. 

"Not  that!  Why  not?"  Cousin  Abby  demanded, 
imperiously.  She  disliked  being  put  in  the  wrong. 

"There  has  never  been  any  question  of  it,"  Agatha 
exclaimed. 

"But  there  has  been  question  of  it.  We've  all 
talked  of  it.  The  very  last  time  I  saw  Cousin  Fanny 

57 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

Wollaston  we  agreed  that  it  was  as  near  as  straw 
berry-time  in  June." 

"Well,  it  wasn't,"  was  all  Agatha  could  find  to 
say. 

"  Then  why  not?"  Miss  Leggett  asked  again.  "  At 
least  you  owe  it  to  me  to  tell  me  that." 

"I  will  tell  you,  Cousin  Abby.  There  are  two 
reasons,  but  one  will  be  enough.  He  never  asked 
me." 

"That  does  explain  it,"  Miss  Leggett  admitted 
with  a  laugh.  "And  now  if  he  didn't,  who  did?" 

"That's  what  I've  come  to  tell  you,  Cousin  Abby." 

"Tell  it,  then.     I  can't  imagine  who  it  can  be." 

"It's  Mr.  Anthony  Muir." 

"What!     The  writer  man?" 

"He's  in  the  English  Department  in  the  univer 
sity,"  Agatha  explained.  "He  does  write." 

"I  never  read  books  myself,  but  I  keep  track  of 
them  by  what  other  people  say.  And  now,  I  come 
to  think  of  it,  I've  been  reading  something  about 
your  very  man  this  morning.  Let  me  see.  Where 
was  it?  It  must  have  been  in  one  of  the  papers.  It 
was  in  the  National,  I  think.  I  looked  over  it  at 
breakfast." 

"Mine  came,  but  I  didn't  open  it,"  Agatha  said. 

"It's  in  the  dining-room.     I'll  go  and  look  for  it." 

"They  never  say  anything  very  nice  about  him," 
Agatha  remarked,  as  her  cousin  rose. 

"And  this  wasn't,"  Miss  Leggett  called  back  from 
the  dining-room.  "Here  it  is,"  she  continued,  as  she 
returned.  "I  thought  it  must  have  been  in  the 
National.  It's  a  letter  signed  '  Christopher  Campbell 
Love.'" 

58 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

Agatha  started  at  the  name.  It  had  a  familiar 
sound,  though  she  could  not  remember  where  she  had 
heard  it. 

"I'll  read  it  to  you,"  Miss  Leggett  went  on,  sinking 
into  her  chair  again. 

"Please  do,"  Agatha  assented.  She  was  always 
eager  to  know  what  the  papers  said  of  Muir. 

Miss  Leggett  settled  herself  and  read : 

"To  the  Editor  of  the  '  National.' 

"DEAR  SIR, — In  reading  that  much-discussed  book,  Soci 
ety  and  Conscience,  by  Mr.  Anthony  Muir,  of  Harvard  Uni 
versity,  I  find  myself  impressed,  I  had  better  say  astounded, 
by  the  resemblance  between  large  portions  of  that  work  and 
A  Treatise  on  the  Human  Conscience,  published  in  1831,  and 
written  by  my  grandfather,  the  late  Christopher  Love.  Mr. 
Love  was  at  that  time  Professor  of  Ethical  Philosophy  in  the 
University  of  Edinburgh.  Owing  to  circumstances  which 
I  cannot  explain,  the  work  on  which  he  spent  much  learn 
ing  and  labor  passed  almost  unnoticed  by  the  press  and 
wholly  so  by  the  public.  The  family  of  Mr.  Love  had 
grown  to  consider  the  book  as  entirely  forgotten,  when 
they  now  see  it  rescued  from  oblivion  by  Mr.  Anthony 
Muir.  The  most  casual  reader  cannot  compare  the  two 
works  without  seeing  at  a  glance  that  the  one  is  largely  a 
reproduction  of  the  other.  The  resemblances  are  so  many 
that  no  theory  of  chances  can  explain  them.  It  is  difficult 
to  give  instances  when  the  similarity  is  not  only  between 
sentences  and  paragraphs,  but  between  chapters  taken  as  a 
whole ;  and  on  this  occasion  I  content  myself  with  demand 
ing  an  explanation  from  Mr.  Muir.  Should  he  be  unwilling 
or  unable  to  give  one,  I  shall  take  such  steps  that  the  pub 
lic  at  large  may  be  in  a  position  to  judge  of  the  truth  of 
what  I  say.  Thanking  you  for  allowing  me  so  much  space, 
believe  me,  dear  sir,  Yours  truly, 

"CHRISTOPHER  CAMPBELL  LOVE, 
"Peebles  Professor  of  Greek, 
"University  of  Detroit." 

59 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"How  base!"  was  Agatha's  first  exclamation. 

"It  wouldn't  be  base  if  it  was  true,"  Cousin  Abby 
observed.  "It's  natural  that  the  family  should  want 
to  claim  their  ancestor's  work." 

"  But  it's  preposterous!"  Agatha  cried,  again.  "  It's 
absurd  on  the  face  of  it." 

"It  may  be  absurd  in  fact,"  Miss  Leggett  said, 
"but  I  don't  see  that  it  is  on  the  face  of  it." 

"  You  don't  know  Anthony,  otherwise  you  wouldn't 
say  so." 

"But  I  hope  to  know  him,  and  then,  no  doubt,  I 
shall  be  less  impartial.  In  the  mean  time,"  she 
added,  throwing  the  paper  aside  and  dismissing  the 
whole  subject  as  of  no  importance — "in  the  mean 
time  I  haven't  congratulated  you." 

"You  can't  if  you  believe  that  thing,"  Agatha  said, 
pointing  to  the  review  lying  on  the  floor. 

"But  I  don't,"  Miss  Leggett  laughed.  "I  only 
keep  myself  open  to  conviction  from  either  side.  In 
any  case  I  can  hope  that  you  may  be  very  happy. 
That  commits  me  to  nothing." 

They  rose  and  kissed  each  other.  Agatha  noted 
that  Cousin  Abby's  formula  was  identical  with  Paul 
Dunster's  on  the  evening  before. 

"They  all  wish  well  to  me,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"but  they  leave  Anthony  out." 

It  was  settled  that  Miss  Leggett  should  arrive  after 
luncheon,  and  Agatha  went  away.  As  she  walked 
down  Brattle  Street  her  thoughts  were  less  pleasant 
than  they  had  been  a  half-hour  before.  The  name  of 
"Christopher  Campbell  Love"  still  haunted  her  with 
a  half-recollection,  as  though  she  had  heard  it  in  a 
dream.  She  walked  rapidly,  eager  to  reach  home  and 

60 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

read  the  letter  for  herself.  As  she  went  onward  the 
sunshine  was  harder  than  it  had  been  just  now,  the 
birds  annoyed  her  by  their  aimless  flittings  among  the 
trees,  and  it  seemed  foolish  of  the  flowers  to  be  bloom 
ing  still  when  summer  was  at  an  end. 


VI 

>UIR  received  the  first  intimation  of 
the  letter  in  the  National  while  lunch 
ing  that  morning  at  his  club  -  table. 
It  was  conveyed  by  Parker  Stubbs  of 
the  English  Department,  who  threw 
it  out  as  a  topic  of  general  interest, 
while  he  ate  rapidly,  with  his  head  in  his  plate. 

"I  see  the  National  has  been  walking  into  you 
again,"  he  began  at  once,  as  soon  as  Muir  had  taken 
his  place  at  table. 

"I  should  think  they'd  soon  get  tired  of  that," 
Muir  returned,  indifferently. 

"Let's  hope  that  for  your  sake  they  won't,"  came 
from  Fisher,  the  young  instructor  in  history.  "It 
keeps  your  book  before  the  public  and  helps  to  sell 
it." 

"That's  true,"  Muir  agreed.  "Better  that  they 
should  keep  hammering  at  me  than  that  they  should 
say  nothing." 

"This  time,"  mumbled  Stubbs,  "it  isn't  the  Nation 
al  itself  in  its  own  many-headed  and  many-handed 
personality;  it's  the  Peebles  Professor  of  Greek  at  the 
University  of  Detroit." 

"Oh,   Love,"  threw  in  Glynn,  of  the  Latin  De 
partment,  "I  know  him.     He's  a  Columbia  man." 
"  Hail  Columbia  is  what  he  threatens  to  give  Muir," 
62 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

Stubbs  went  on.  "He  accuses  him  of  stealing  a  bit 
of  his  own  family  property." 

"Never  heard  of  the  gentleman,"  Muir  said,  with 
admirable  self-control,  as  he  helped  himself  to  the 
cutlets. 

"  Well,  Love  seems  to  insist  on  your  making  his  ac 
quaintance,"  Stubbs  pursued. 

"Happy  to  meet  him  any  time  he  likes,"  Muir  re 
plied,  with  the  same  air  of  indifference.  "Did  any 
body  go  to  see  Jennison  in  'Hamlet'  last  night?  I 
was  dining  out  and  couldn't." 

"I  did,"  said  Glynn.  "It  was  a  good  deal  as  if 
John  the  Orangeman  had  played  it." 

So  the  conversation  turned  and  did  not  touch  on 
the  National  again.  Muir  was  careful  not  to  let  it 
be  seen  that  his  curiosity  was  roused,  but  on  leaving 
the  table  he  returned  hurriedly  to  his  rooms.  The 
accusing  document  was  lying  there  unopened  and  he 
tore  the  band  apart  with  fingers  that  almost  trembled 
in  their  haste. 

The  National  is  generally  admitted  to  be  the  most 
authoritative  weekly  publication  in  the  United  States. 
It  is  not  a  newspaper,  it  is  a  review.  It  belongs  to  a 
class  of  literary  journalism  of  which  London,  Paris 
and  Berlin  can  show  a  good  many  examples,  though 
the  continent  of  America  contents  itself  with  one  or 
two.  Being  almost  without  a  competitor,  the  Na 
tional  can  be  as  prosy  as  it  likes,  and  yet  speak  for  the 
new  world  as  the  Spectator,  the  Aihenceum,  and  the 
Saturday  taken  together  cannot  speak  for  the  old. 
The  most  able  men  in  politics,  science,  literature  and 
art  contribute  to  its  pages  and  if  the  result  is  dull  the 
dulness  is  of  a  superior  quality.  Though  the  Na- 

63 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

tional  issues  from  New  York,  yet,  as  the  organ  of  the 
intellectual  classes,  it  is  read  by  every  well-informed 
person  in  Old  Cambridge.  Many  of  its  articles  come 
from  the  older  professors,  while  the  younger  ones  con 
tribute  book-reviews.  Its  lightest  word  is,  therefore, 
of  some  importance,  especially  in  those  university 
circles  where  reading  and  writing  are  serious  aims. 

Muir  turned  the  pages  as  he  stood,  running  his  eye 
up  and  down  the  columns  until  he  caught  his  own 
name.  He  turned  to  the  signature  before  reading  the 
letter.  "Christopher  Campbell  Love."  The  words 
seemed  to  leap  out  at  him,  and  he  half  drew  back  as 
from  an  apparition.  Then  he  recovered  himself  and 
read  the  letter  through.  When  he  had  finished  it  he 
took  a  turn  around  the  room,  his  head  bent  and  his 
hands  behind  him.  Coming  back  to  the  table,  he 
picked  up  the  review  and  read  the  letter  through  once 
more.  Then  he  strolled  to  the  mantel-piece  and  be 
gan  fingering  the  bits  of  carved  ivory  on  it.  A  minute 
later  he  pushed  them  away  and  lit  a  cigarette.  Throw 
ing  himself  into  a  chair  he  smoked  absently,  while  his 
eyes  traced  the  aimless  pattern  on  an  Oriental  rug. 
Suddenly  he  looked  at  his  watch.  "I  shall  be  late 
for  my  lecture,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  sprang  up. 
But  he  stood  for  a  moment,  still  reflecting.  "After 
all,"  he  said  to  himself  again,  "my  stand  is  taken.  I 
took  it  last  night.  There's  no  modification  of  it  nor 
retreat  from  it.  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  it. 
I  have  only  to  let  Paul  Dunster  and  Christopher 
Campbell  Love  and  any  one  else  who  chooses  to  join 
with  them,  blow  till  they  blow  their  brains  out." 

As  he  picked  up  his  hat  his  eye  fell  on  the  crumpled 
copy  of  the  National.  "I  sha'n't  have  that  thing 

64 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

lying  here,"  he  said,  "in  case  any  one  drops  in."  He 
folded  it  and  put  it  in  a  drawer,  but  before  he  turned 
the  key  a  second  thought  came  to  him.  "No,"  he 
reflected,  "that  isn't  my  game.  I've  got  nothing  to 
hide  or  to  be  afraid  of.  The  frank  and  open  is  the 
line  I've  got  to  take.  There!"  he  exclaimed,  half 
aloud,  as  he  flung  the  paper  from  the  drawer  to  the 
table  again.  "He  who  runs  may  read  it  and  be 
damned  to  him!" 

When  he  descended  to  the  street  he  walked  with 
his  head  more  defiantly  erect  than  ever,  while  his 
eyes  flashed  and  the  color  mounted  to  his  cheek.  As 
he  crossed  the  Yard  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  ac 
quaintances  he  met  were  thinking  of  the  charge 
brought  against  him  that  morning  and  that  even  the 
students  in  his  lecture-room  would  be  discussing  it 
among  themselves.  But  he  was  a  Scotchman  and  his 
fighting  blood  was  up.  He  felt  himself  able  to  bear 
down,  by  his  own  personality,  everything  in  the  way 
of  suspicion,  criticism,  or  accusation. 

He  felt  so  still  when,  in  the  evening,  after  dinner, 
Agatha  also  introduced  the  subject  of  the  letter  in 
the  National.  They  were  sitting  alone  in  the  Louis 
XV.  drawing-room,  for  Miss  Leggett  had  left  them 
to  themselves. 

"  Have  you  seen  this?"  Agatha  asked,  just  touching 
with  her  fan  the  paper  that  lay  on  the  table  beside 
which  they  sat. 

"I  opened  it  this  morning,"  he  admitted;  "but  I 
was  busy  and  didn't  have  time  to  give  it  much  atten 
tion.  May  I  glance  at  it  again?" 

He  took  the  review  languidly  and  looked  it  through. 
Agatha  watched  him  as  he  read, 
s  65 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"And  this  is  what  my  vanity  has  come  to!"  he 
laughed,  when  he  had  finished.  "  I  who  fondly 
thought  I  had  struck  a  new  vein  of  inquiry  find  that  it 
is  only  one  abandoned  as  long  ago  as  1831.  Ah,  me! 
How  we  poor  mortals  follow  in  each  other's  tracks! 
Anthony  Muir  must  march  on  the  heels  of  Christopher 
Love,  as  Christopher  Love  on  the  heels  of  some  one 
else." 

"Oh, but,  Anthony,  you  don't  think  that  there  can 
be—" 

"Any  resemblance  between  the  two  books?  Quite 
possibly.  Everybody  is  always  anticipated.  Ar 
chaeologists  are  discovering  every  day  that  some  of 
our  most  vaunted  modern  inventions — gold-filling  in 
teeth,  for  instance  —  were  known  to  the  ancients. 
History  passes  in  cycles.  Ideas  come  round  in  regular 
rotation  once  in  so  often,  like  the  fashions  in  women's 
clothes.  It  may  be  that  just  as  the  styles  of  1830  have 
been  more  or  less  in  vogue  of  late  years,  so  it  is  with 
discussion  of  the  human  conscience.  After  a  lapse  of 
two  generations,  both,  for  some  curious  psychological 
reason,  may  have  reached  the  moment  of  resuscita 
tion.  I  believe  I  could  write  an  article  for  the  Na 
tional  myself,  with  that  as  a  text.  1830 :  the  downfall 
of  the  House  of  Bourbon;  the  death  of  George  IV.; 
the  rise  of  the  Romantic  School ;  the  beginning  of  the 
Oxford  Movement.  Then  the  passage  of  threescore 
years  and  ten — the  regulation  time.  It  would  be  only 
natural  if  the  same  trend  of  thought  were  to  come 
round  again.  I  must  work  it  up,  dear,  and  I'll  buy 
you  a  present  with  what  the  National  pays  me." 

They  both  laughed  and  he  threw  the  review  care 
lessly  on  the  table. 

66 


The    Steps   of  Honor 

"But  what  shall  you  do  about  it?"  Agatha  asked. 

"About  what,  dearest?" 

"About  this  letter." 

"Oh,  nothing.  Christopher  Love  is  dead.  Let 
him  stay  dead." 

"Then  you  won't  write  to  the  National?" 

"Not  a  bit.     What  for?" 

"To  say  you  never  heard  of  Christopher  Love." 

"That  wouldn't  do  any  good,  dear.  Besides,  I 
make  it  a  rule  never  to  reply  to  criticisms  of  my 
work." 

"Still,  I  should  think  you'd  write,"  she  persisted, 
gently. 

"If  I  did,  I  should  only  be  playing  into  the  good 
man's  hand.  I  don't  know  him,  but  I  should  guess 
that  he  was  one  of  those  gentleman  who  enjoy  the 
mild  dissipation  of  newspaper  correspondence.  I 
don't;  and  so  I  shall  enshroud  myself  in  a  dignified, 
golden  silence." 

"But  if  he  goes  on,  Anthony?" 

"Then  he  shall  beat  the  idle  air;  I,  meanwhile, 
sitting  dumb  and  enigmatic  like  the  Sphinx." 

"I  must  say  that  I  admire  that  attitude  as  a  rule," 
Agatha  said,  without  much  conviction  in  her  tone; 
"but  in  this  case — " 

"There  is  no  sound  so  distressing  as  the  clashing  of 
pens,"  he  interrupted.  "The  shock  of  arms,  the 
rattling  of  chains  and  even  the  jangling  of  sweet  bells 
out  of  tune  and  harsh  may  have  in  them  something 
of  the  noble  or  poetic ;  but  the  smiting  of  one  man's 
quill  against  another's  is  nearly  always  a  petty  and 
feeble  form  of  warfare  carried  on  for  petty  and  per 
sonal  aims.  In  that  sort  of  fight  they'd  have  to  hit 

67 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

me  pretty  hard  before  I  should  be  tempted  to  hit 
back." 

"Well,  isn't  this  hitting  pretty  hard?"  she  asked, 
barely  arching  her  eyebrows  and  again  touching  the 
copy  of  the  National  with  her  fan. 

"You  think  so,  dear,"  he  explained,  "because 
you're  always  indignant  with  anything  that  pitches 
into  me.  But  I'm  used  to  it.  When  one  appears  in 
any  way  before  the  public  one  has  to  remember  that 
one  can  only  please  a  limited  number.  No  one  can 
do  more.  And  every  one  whom  one  doesn't  please 
has  a  right  to  speak  his  mind  about  one's  performance. 
That  right  one  has  to  recognize  and  accept  in  philo 
sophical  silence." 

"It's  curious,"  Agatha  said,  moving  to  another 
point,  "that  Paul  Dunster  should  have  mentioned 
the  same  name  last  night." 

"  Not  so  very.  I've  no  doubt,  as  I  said  before,  that 
I've  been  following  in  another  man's  wake  without 
knowing  it..  Such  things  have  happened  before  and 
will  happen  again.  That  wouldn't  detract,  however, 
from  the  value  of  my  work  or  make  me  in  any  way 
answerable  to  people  who  amuse  themselves  by 
trumping  up  charges." 

Agatha  did  not  pursue  the  subject  further.  She 
admired  Muir's  lofty  disdain  of  attack  and  she  was 
eager  to  accept  his  opinion  as  the  right  one.  But  in 
this  instance  she  could  not  rid  herself  of  a  curious 
misgiving.  As  they  talked  of  other  things  her 
thoughts  kept  reverting  to  the  previous  point. 
Though  she  argued  that  he  must  be  the  best  judge  of 
what  to  do,  her  heart  was  heavy  with  a  contrary  con 
viction.  "It's  noble  of  him  to  be  so  splendidly  in- 

68 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

different,"  she  told  herself;  but  none  the  less  she 
knew  she  would  have  been  glad  if  he  had  showed 
greater  concern. 

She  felt  this  more  strongly  after  he  went  away. 
When  the  door  closed  behind  him  she  turned  from  it 
with  a  sense  that  the  evening  had  been  a  failure.  It 
was  the  first  evening  they  had  spent  together  under 
her  own  roof — the  roof  that  was  one  day  to  be  his — 
and  she  had  looked  forward  to  it  as  the  beginning  of 
a  more  intimate  phase  in  their  relations  to  each  other; 
but  somehow,  now  that  it  was  over,  and  she  stood 
alone  in  the  silent  hall,  she  had  a  strange  feeling  that 
they  were  farther  apart.  She  reproached  herself  for 
it  and  tried  to  shake  it  off.  As  she  went  slowly  down 
the  hall  to  the  library  she  did  her  best  to  encounter 
Cousin  Abby  Leggett  without  looking  as  if  something 
had  gone  wrong. 

"Well?"  Miss  Leggett  questioned,  glancing  up 
from  the  evening  paper  as  Agatha  entered  the  room. 
"  Has  the  silver  skiff  pulled  up  at  the  door  for  Lohen 
grin?" 

"  Mr.  Muir  has  gone  home,  if  that's  what  you  mean, 
Cousin  Abby,"  Agatha  said,  seating  herself  with  dig 
nity  in  one  of  the  green- and-gold,  Empire  arm-chairs. 

"That's  what  I  mean,  but  the  plain  language 
seemed  to  me  inappropriate." 

"I  hope  you  haven't  been  disappointed  in  him?" 

"Not  disappointed,  only  disconcerted,"  Miss  Leg 
gett  laughed.  "  He's  put  all  my  usual  tests  for  judg 
ing  men  out  of  joint.  I  couldn't  be  more  bewildered 
if  I  were  the  classical  lady  before  whom  Jupiter  came 
down  as  a  shower  of  gold." 

"Didn't  you  think  him  nice?" 
69 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"Nice!  I  thought  him  heavenly.  I  haven't  had 
a  man  show  me  so  much  attention  since  I  was  a  girl 
with  a  figure  and  a  color  like  Persis  Wollaston's.  Why, 
he  positively  included  me  in  the  conversation  and 
held  the  door  open  for  me  when  I  left  the  room.  I 
couldn't  help  asking  myself  all  the  time, '  What's  Har 
vard  coming  to  if  the  young  men  are  going  to  be  cour 
teous  to  old  women?'  There  never  was  such  a  thing 
known  in  the  university  before." 

"Any  one  can  see  that  Anthony  is  a  gentleman," 
Agatha  said,  coloring  with  pride. 

"And  a  lady's  gentleman,"  Miss  Leggett  added. 
"  He  knows  just  how  to  take  us  in  our  weaknesses. 
He  could  tell  at  a  glance  that  a  little  attention  would 
flatter  me  into  a  state  of  mental  incapacity,  and  it 
has.  So,  if  you  want  to  know  my  opinion  of  him, 
my  dear,  I'm  in  no  fit  state  to  give  it." 

"You  mustn't  think  he  isn't  sincere,  Cousin  Abby." 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  think  it.  And  yet  no 
true  New  England  woman  can  see  a  man  with  such 
very  good  manners  and  not  be  a  little  suspicious." 

"Suspicious  of  what?" 

"  Of  nothing  in  particular  and  of  everything  in  gen 
eral.  It  makes  me  feel  as  I  do  when  I  see  a  woman 
wearing  a  beautiful  string  of  pearls;  I  can't  help  won 
dering  if  they  are  real.  If  your  Anthony  Muir  is  all 
he  seems  to  be,  then  I  can  only  say  that  he  is  worth 
his  weight  in  gold." 

"I  think  you  will  find  that  what  he  is  superficially 
he  is  throughout." 

"I  should  call  that  too  good  to  be  true.  In  your 
place  I  shouldn't  count  on  it,  for  you're  sure  to  be  dis 
appointed." 

70 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

Agatha  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"  I  know  him  too  well,"  she  said.  "  He's  one  of  the 
men  from  whom  you  can  look  for  great  things,  but 
who  will  always  give  you  greater." 

"One  of  the  men!  My  dear,  if  he's  like  that  he's 
the  only  one  ;  he's  unique.  Really  you  make  me 
suspicious  in  spite  of  myself.  Just  to  hear  you  say 
so  makes  me  wild  to  find  out  what's  wrong  with  him." 

"There's  nothing  wrong  with  him,"  Agatha  de 
clared,  with  confidence. 

"There's  somebody  up  in  Detroit  who  thinks  there 
is.  Have  you  forgotten  what  was  in  the  paper  about 
him  only  this  morning?" 

Miss  Leggett  spoke  jestingly,  but  Agatha  ceased  to 
smile. 

"He  was  perfectly  splendid  about  that,"  she  said, 
pensively. 

"Oh,  he'd  be  splendid  about  anything.  That's  his 
style.  That's  what  has  dazzled  me.  He'd  be  splen 
did  if  he  was  picking  your  pocket  or  cutting  your 
throat.  I  suppose  on  this  occasion  he  was  splendid 
in  righteous  indignation." 

"  No.  He  was  splendid  in  his  simplicity,  in  his  fair 
ness  and  in  his  open-mindedness." 

"And  you're  sure  it  wasn't  put  on?" 

"Oh,  Cousin  Abby!" 

"Well,  the  young  men  put  on  so  much  nowadays. 
They're  nothing  but  a  superficies  of  veneer.  Paul 
Dunster  is  the  only  one  in  whom  you  can  see  the  nat 
ural  grain  of  the  wood,  and  that's  rough.  What's 
your  Anthony  going  to  do  about  the  Peebles  Professor 
of  Greek?" 

"Nothing." 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"Nothing?  That's  beautifully  non-committal,  but 
it's  an  attitude  likely  to  be  misunderstood.  Ill-nat 
ured  people  will  think  he  says  nothing  because  he  has 
nothing  to  say." 

"  He  makes  it  a  rule  never  to  reply  to  criticisms  of 
his  work." 

"I  shouldn't  call  this  a  criticism  so  much  as  an  ac 
cusation." 

Agatha  flushed  and  moved  uneasily.  It  was  the 
expression  of  the  thought  she  herself  had  not  dared  to 
formulate. 

"He  holds  himself  above  all  that,"  she  answered. 
"Shots  that  would  wound  other  men  seem  to  pass 
below  him." 

"That's  a  most  convenient  altitude  at  which  to 
live.  Very  few  of  us  are  able  to  get  above  the  moral 
cloud-belt  once  or  twice  in  a  life-time ;  but  actually  to 
stay  up  there  is  almost  equal  to  having  wings." 

"  You  needn't  be  satirical,  Cousin  Abby,"  Agatha 
said,  in  a  tone  slightly  of  offence.  "The  more  you 
know  Anthony,  the  more  you  will  see  that  he  does 
live  in  a  spiritual  atmosphere  higher  than  our  own." 

"  Now,  my  dear,  I  don't  doubt  it,"  Miss  Leggett  ex 
claimed,  in  her  hearty  way.  She  threw  down  the 
evening  paper,  and,  rising,  came  and  stood  looking 
down  at  the  girl.  "  He  certainly  seems  to  be  a  most 
engaging  young  man.  From  what  I  could  see  this 
evening,  he  is  a  judicious  mixture  of  Phoebus  Apollo 
and  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson;  and  so  if  any  man  has  a 
right  to  live  above  our  heads  it's  he.  But  if  I  were 
you  I'd  try  to  get  him  down  just  once — just  once  and 
just  long  enough  to  fire  one  fatal  shot  at  Christopher 
Campbell  Love,  after  which  he  would  be  free  to  soar 

72 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

back  again.  I'm  sure  he  could  do  it  easily  enough, 
and  it  would  be  a  relief  to  all  our  minds." 

Agatha  laughed  nervously  and  rose,  too. 

"I'm  sure  he  knows  best,"  she  declared,  loyally,  as 
she  went  about  the  room  putting  out  the  lights. 

They  kissed  each  other  and  said  good-night.  Miss 
Leggett  went  up-stairs,  but  Agatha  lingered  a  mo 
ment  in  the  darkened  library. 

"A  relief  to  all  our  minds,"  she  quoted.  "That 
means  they  are  thinking  about  it.  They're  afraid 
I'm  taking  a  false  step.  They  suspect  Anthony  of 
having  stolen  the  book.  Then  this  is  my  opportunity 
to  show  that  I  believe  in  him." 

As  she  went  up-stairs  there  was  something  of  Muir's 
own  air  of  haughty  defiance  in  her  look  and  bearing. 


VII 

|T  was  natural  that  Agatha  should  be 
curious  as  to  what  the  Wollastons 
thought  of  her  engagement.  Though 
she  was  free  to  act  without  their  con 
sent,  she  could  not  be  happy  without 
their  approval.  A  few  days  before, 
she  had  felt  certain  of  getting  it,  but  the  small  events 
of  the  last  forty-eight  hours  had  raised  in  her  mind 
an  uncomfortable  shadow  of  doubt. 

"Do  you  think  they  really  like  it?"  she  asked,  anx 
iously,  of  Persis,  when  the  girl  came  on  some  trifling' 
errand  next  morning. 

"Don't  ask  me,"  Persis  answered,  dropping  lan 
guidly  into  a  large,  chintz-covered  arm-chair  in  Aga 
tha's  bedroom.     "I'm  the  last  person  to  know.     I'm 
the  young  thing  who  must  never  be  told  anything." 
"Still,  I  thought  you  might  have  gathered — " 
"Gathered!     You  might  as  well  expect  to  gather 
roses  on  the  sea-beach  as  to  get  at  what  Uncle  Hector 
and  Aunt  Fanny  think  about  other  people's  affairs. 
Death  itself   isn't   more    guarded  or  silent   or   dis 
creet.'1 

"Do  you  know  if  they  read  yesterday's  number  of 
the  National?"  Agatha  questioned,  as  she  moved 
about  the  room  picking  up  little  articles  of  apparel 
and  arranging  them  in  drawers. 

74 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"From  the  fact  that  they've  not  said  anything 
about  it  I  presume  they  have." 

"Have  you,  Persis?" 

"Yes,  and  I  saw  the  letter  about  Mr.  Muir.  I 
mentioned  it  at  lunch  and  I  knew  by  the  way  they 
didn't  take  the  subject  up  that  they'd  been  talking  it 
over  between  themselves.  I  expect  Mr.  Muir's  an 
swer  will  be  great  fun." 

"  He  isn't  going  to  write  one,"  Agatha  said,  trying 
to  speak  indifferently. 

"Isn't  he?     I  wish  he  would." 

"So  do  I,"  Agatha  admitted;  "but  that's  the  sort 
of  battle  in  which  he  doesn't  think  it  dignified  to  de 
fend  himself." 

"Do  you  know  what  I'd  do,  if  I  were  you?" 
Persis  rattled  on.  "I'd  get  Paul  Dunster  to  write  it 
up.  You  know  he's  got  a  book  all  about  it.  He  said 
so  at  dinner  the  night  before  last." 

Agatha  paused  in  her  work  and  looked  at  Persis. 

"So  he  did,"  she  said,  thoughtfully.  "I'd  for 
gotten  it,  but  I  remember  now.  He  said  he'd  lend  it 
to  Anthony." 

"Well,  if  he's  got  the  book,"  Persis  went  on,  "he 
could  write  it  up  and  give  the  Detroit  man  fits." 

"That's  true,"  Agatha  agreed,  "and  it  might  be 
better  than  if  Anthony  did  it  himself.  Still,  I  don't 
think  I'll  ask  him." 

"I  would,  if  I  were  you,"  Persis  urged.  "He'd 
love  to  do  it  for  you." 

Agatha  turned  the  conversation  by  asking  when 
she  would  be  likely  to  find  Mr.  Wollaston  alone,  for  a 
few  minutes'  conversation. 

"Let  me  see,"  Persis  reflected.  "To-day  is  Thurs- 
75 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

day  and  he  comes  home  early.  Aunt  Fanny  will  be 
at  her  Bee  and  I  shall  be  pouring  tea  for  Mrs.  Arling 
ton  Revere.  I  should  think  if  you  came  about  four 
you'd  have  Uncle  Hector  entirely  at  your  mercy." 

"Don't  tell  him  I'm  coming,"  Agatha  charged,  as 
Persis  went  away.  "I'll  take  my  chance  of  finding 
him." 

When  she  arrived  she  received  a  heartier  welcome 
than  she  expected.  She  was  taken  into  the  study  and 
made  to  sit  in  the  arm-chair,  while  the  professor  drew 
his  seat  close  up  to  hers. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come  to-day,"  he  said,  "because 
Fanny's  at  her  Bee — the  bumble  Bee,  I  call  it,  for 
from  all  I  hear  they  do  nothing  but  gossip  under  pre 
tence  of  working  for  the  poor.  That's  nothing  to  me, 
however,  so  long  as  it  takes  Fanny  out  of  the  way  for 
an  hour  or  two  a  week.  I  don't  care  if  they  do  gossip. 
I  shouldn't  care  if  they  committed  murder.  I  get 
the  house  to  myself  and  that's  the  essential." 

"  But  Mrs.  Wollaston  is  so  good!"  Agatha  protested. 

"Of  course  she's  good.  Why  shouldn't  she  be? 
She's  never  lived  anywhere  but  in  Cambridge  and  in 
the  heart  of  the  college,  so  to  speak.  That's  enough 
to  make  anybody  good.  You'd  be  good  yourself  if 
you  had  done  that.  Perhaps  some  day  you  will." 

"I  hope  to,"  Agatha  admitted,  with  a  smile. 

"So  I  suppose.  But  are  you  sure  you  are  setting 
the  right  way  to  work  about  it?" 

"Perfectly  sure,"  she  replied,  with  a  confident  lift 
ing  of  the  head. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  that — very  glad,  indeed.  I  half 
expected  you  to  feel  differently.  So  did  Mrs.  Wollas 
ton,  if  she'd  speak  out." 

76 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"  I  don't  see  why.  You  approve  of  my  engagement, 
don't  you?" 

"On  general  principles,  yes.  It's  time  you  were 
getting  married.  You're  not  so  very  young  and  I 
rather  think  you're  beginning  to  lose  your  looks.  I 
don't  say  you're  going  off,  mind  you,"  he  hastened  to 
explain.  "I  mean  only  that  you're  the  style  of  girl 
that  ages  early.  You're  so  tall  and  you've  got  that 
high  color.  Now,  Fanny  doesn't  look  ten  years  older 
than  when  we  were  married.  You'll  never  wear  like 
that." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  Agatha  agreed,  modestly. 

"Which  makes  it  all  the  more  important  that  you 
should  settle  soon.  I  do  approve  of  your  getting  en 
gaged — to  some  one." 

"Then  I  hope  Mr.  Muir  will  do  as  well  as  another." 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  have 
any  well-founded  objection  to  Muir." 

"Or  ill-founded?" 

"I've  no  objection  to  him  at  all,"  the  professor 
declared — "that  is,  for  an  engagement,"  he  added,  in 
qualification.  "  But  an  engagement  isn't  a  marriage." 

"Naturally,"  Agatha  murmured,  in  assent. 

"Now,  I  consider  the  engagement,  as  an  institu 
tion,  a  wise  provision  of  society.  It  is  tentative  and 
experimental.  There's  nothing  final  and  conclusive 
and  irrevocable  about  it.  I'm  not  sure  if  it  isn't  an 
excellent  plan  to  be  engaged  a  good  many  times  be 
fore  taking  the  last  step  of  all." 

"Oh!"  Agatha  exclaimed,  softly.  The  point  of 
view  was  novel  to  her.  Clasping  her  white-gloved 
hands  in  her  lap  she  bent  forward  in  an  attitude  of  at 
tention. 

77 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

"Yes,"  Mr.  Wollaston  went  on,  "I  should  say  that 
it  was  an  especially  wise  plan  for  a  young  woman. 
She's  under  one  great  disadvantage,  and  it's  this:  the 
man  doesn't  have  to  speak  till  he's  ready,  but  a  girl 
must  be  often  in  the  position  of  getting  an  offer  that's 
too  good  to  say  no  to,  though  she  may  not  be  sure 
that  she  wants  to  say  yes." 

"But  any  nice  girl,  Mr.  Wollaston — " 

"Just  let  me  go  on,  my  dear.  In  that  case,  let  her 
get  engaged,  I  say.  That  doesn't  commit  her  to  any 
thing.  Whenever  she  likes  she's  at  liberty  to  with 
draw." 

"But  I  don't  think  so,"  Agatha  objected,  eagerly. 
"No  girl  should  accept  a  man  without  meaning  to 
marry  him." 

"If  he  suits  her,"  the  professor  added;  "certainly 
not.  But  you  can't  get  rid  of  that  condition;  it 
wouldn't  be  common-sense.  And  all  I  want  to  sug 
gest  to  you  is  this,  that  you  mustn't  feel  yourself 
bound  to  take  the  first  comer — " 

"  Oh,  but  I  didn't,"  she  interrupted  and  then 
stopped  herself  with  a  blush. 

"Well,  perhaps  you  didn't.  That's  neither  here 
nor  there.  For  all  I  know  you  may  have  had  two  or 
three  offers  before  Muir's.  Did  you?" 

The  question  was  so  direct  that  Agatha  was  star 
tled  into  an  admission. 

"More,"  she  said,  and  checked  herself  again. 

"Then  you  might  have  done  well  to  take  some 
of  them  —  temporarily,  I  mean;  you'd  have  had 
had  more  experience.  You  wouldn't  be  so  likely  to 
fall  an  easy  victim.  I  must  say,  Agatha,  I've  had 
high  hopes  of  you.  I  feel  more  or  less  like  a  father  to 

78 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

you  and  so  does  Fanny.  It's  natural  that  we  should. 
We  didn't'expect  you  to  do  anything  hasty — " 

"I  assure  you  I  haven't." 

"Or  to  think  that  just  because  a  man  doesn't  offer 
himself  at  the  first  opportunity  he  doesn't  mean  to 
do  it  at  all." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  understand  you,  Mr.  Wollas- 
ton." 

"Oh  yes,  you  do.  I  needn't  speak  a  bit  more 
plainly.  Yours  isn't  an  uncommon  case  by  any 
means.  All  the  older  literatures  are  full  of  just  such 
instances — the  maiden's  heart  caught  on  the  rebound 
by  the  man  who  wasn't  the  one  she  fancied.  The 
story  is  quite  a  primitive  one  and  makes  very  pretty 
mediaeval  poetry,  but  it  isn't  practical  enough  for  to 
day." 

"May  I  ask,"  she  inquired,  speaking  slowly,  "if 
you  think  I  don't  care  for  Mr.  Muir?" 

"  Not  at  all — not  at  all.  I  shouldn't  venture  to  say 
that  for  a  moment;  neither  would  Fanny.  One  can 
care  for  different  people  in  different  ways.  I'm  not 
talking  about  Muir  at  all.  I'm  only  saying  that  if 
Paul  Dunster  is  slow  he's  sure.  He  may  not  be  very 
good-looking;  but  looks  are  only  of  secondary  im 
portance  in  a  man,  after  all.  I  know  he's  short  and 
that  he  has  a  cast  in  one  of  his  eyes;  but  that  ought 
not  to  weigh  with  a  sensible  girl  like  you." 

"Of  course  it  wouldn't,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of 
indignation.  "I've  always  found  Mr.  Dunster  a 
charming  man;  but  you  mustn't  think  on  that  ac 
count  that  I  feel  anything  more  for  him  than — " 

"That's  what  I  said  to  Fanny,"  he  broke  in.  "I 
said  it  was  as  plain  as  daylight  the  way  you  felt.  I 

79 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

could  see  that  when  you  went  off  in  a  hurry  to  Europe 
last  year.  'It's  nothing  but  a  tiff  between  them,'  I 
said,  'and  it  will  come  right  in  the  end';  and  Fanny 
agreed  with  me.  Oh,  you  young  minxes  think  that 
we  old  people  can't  read  you.  My  dear,  we've  been 
through  it  all.  And  what  I  want  to  say  to  you  is  this  : 
that  there's  no  harm  done.  You've  been  getting 
your  experience,  that's  all.  With  regard  to  Muir, 
you're  only  in  the  experimental  stage.  You're  not 
obliged  to  go  any  further.  You've  put  one  foot  on 
the  ice,  but  you've  got  the  other  one  on  shore.  Find 
ing  that  the  ice  won't  bear  you,  you  draw  back. 
You've  not  only  got  a  right  to  do  it,  but  there's  no 
other  sensible  course  before  you.  Muir  will  get  over 
it.  Don't  have  any  alarm  about  that.  He's  one  of 
those  lady-killers  that  are  always  ready  for  a  change." 

"You're  under  an  entire  misapprehension,  Mr. 
Wollaston.  He  isn't  that  kind  of  man.  I  wish  I 
could  tell  you  how  noble  and  good  he  is.  You  must 
have  seen  that  from  his  book,  if  you've  read  it." 

"I've  glanced  at  it.  It's  a  little  choppy,  but  it 
isn't  a  bad  book.  It's  curiously  antiquated  here  and 
more  curiously  modern  there,  but  that's  not  against 
it." 

"  And  he's  been  so  maliciously  attacked.  Have  you 
read  this?"  She  leaned  across  the  table  and  picked 
up  the  copy  of  the  National.  "  Isn't  it  shameful  that 
such  things  should  be  allowed  to  get  into  print?" 

"I've  seen  it.  The  charge  is  rather  a  strong  one. 
I  suppose  Muir  will  know  how  to  answer  it." 

"He  isn't  going  to  answer  it  at  all." 

"Ah!"  the  professor  interjected,  thrusting  out  his 
underlip. 

80 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

"He  laughed  at  it." 

"Ah!" 

"  He  treats  it  with  scorn." 

"Really?  I'm  surprised  at  that.  I  know  some 
thing  about  Love,  of  Detroit,  and  I  should  call  him  a 
rather  dogged  opponent."  There  was  an  expression 
in  his  face  that  startled  Agatha. 

"You — you  don't  think,"  she  said,  speaking  hardly, 
"that  there  can  be  anything  in  it?" 

"Possibly  not." 

"But  you  mean,  possibly  yes?" 

"  I  don't  say  that.  I  limit  myself  to  thinking  that 
the  tug-of-war  between  Love  and  Muir  will  be  an  in 
teresting  exhibition  of  strength." 

"But  if  Anthony  won't  engage  in  it?" 

"Then  Love  will  keep  at  him  till  he  does.  If  I 
were  you,  my  dear,  I'd  do  the  same.  It  isn't  as  if 
the  accusation — " 

Agatha  raised  her  hand  with  a  protesting  move 
ment  at  the  word. 

"It  isn't  as  if  the  accusation,"  the  old  man  re 
peated,  deliberately,  "came  from  any  one  anony 
mous  or  obscure.  Love,  of  Detroit,  isn't  a  negligible 
quantity  in  the  world  of  letters.  If  he  goes  on  talk 
ing,  Muir  won't  be  able  to  keep  silent." 

"  He  says  he  will." 

"Well,  he  knows  his  own  business  best.  In  any 
case,  we've  nothing  to  do  with  it.  We've  only  got  to 
sit  still  and  look  for  the  outcome.  It  will  give  you 
more  time  to  make  preparations  for  your  wedding — 
if  you  get  married." 

"  I  shouldn't  put  my  marriage  off  for  this,"  Agatha 
said,  hotly. 

6  81 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"No,  of  course  not.  I  shouldn't  advise  that  at  all; 
neither  would  Fanny.  You'd  only  not  fix  the  date 
for  a  while — just  till — till  we'd  see.  You'll  enjoy 
your  engagement  all  the  more  by  spinning  it  out." 
"I  see  you  don't  believe  in  Anthony." 
"  I  don't  believe  in  any  one,  my  dear.  I  don't  even 
believe  in  Fanny.  For  aught  I  know,  she's  a  perfect 
Cleopatra.  And  that's  the  way  I  should  advise  you 
to  feel  about  Muir.  Don't  begin  your  life  by  believ 
ing  in  people,  for  you'll  be  cruelly  disillusioned. 
Mind  you,  I  don't  say  Muir  is  a  bit  worse  than  any 
body  else.  I'm  only  cautioning  you  against  putting 
your  faith  in  any  one  so  long  as  you  can  get  up  a  sus 
picion  against  them." 

"I  shall  never  suspect  Anthony,  Mr.  Wollaston." 
"  Then  you'll  be  a  very  foolish  girl.  Look  at  Fanny. 
She's  suspected  me  every  hour  in  the  day  and  I've 
spent  my  life  throwing  dust  in  her  eyes.  Depend 
upon  it,  Muir  is  doing  the  same  with  you,  and  you'll 
not  be  the  woman  I  take  you  for  if  you  let  yourself  be 
blinded." 

Beyond  this  Agatha  got  no  satisfaction.  As  she 
returned  homeward,  a  half -hour  later,  she  felt,  more 
than  ever,  that  around  the  man  she  had  promised  to 
marry  there  had  risen  a  strange  atmosphere  of  dis 
trust  which  she  was  powerless  to  dispel.  It  was  even 
creeping  into  her  own  regard  for  him,  though  she 
knew  it  was  at  just  such  a  moment  as  this  that  all  her 
principles  of  loyalty  and  duty  called  on  her  to  be 
true. 


VIII 

*HE  next  week's  number  of  the  ATa- 
tional  had  no  reference  to  Anthony 
Muir.  Agatha  breathed  more  freely. 
The  slight  buzz  of  gossip  the  letter 
had  caused  died  down.  The  few  peo 
ple  interested  began  to  talk  of  some 
thing  else.  Anthony  was  in  high  spirits,  and  Agatha 
and  he  made  plans  for  their  marriage  early  in  Decem 
ber.  Then  a  new  number  of  the  National  appeared 
with  a  second  letter.  In  it  the  writer  expressed  his 
surprise  that  his  challenge  had  not  been  taken 
up  and  asked  permission  to  give  a  few  comparative 
extracts  from  the  pages  of  Anthony  Muir  and  Chris 
topher  Love.  The  passages  were  printed  side  by  side 
and  the  impartial  reader  was  called  upon  to  judge. 

The  immediate  effect  upon  Anthony  Muir's  ac 
quaintance  was  to  create  a  feeling  of  surprise.  People 
who  had  paid  no  attention  to  the  first  letter  read  the 
second  and  talked  of  it.  Public  interest  itself  began 
to  stir.  What  does  it  mean  ?  the  readers  of  the  Na- 
tional  asked  each  other.  It  was  clear  that  between 
the  two  works  there  was  an  astonishing  similarity 
and  admirers  of  Society  and  Conscience  began  to  fore 
cast  the  probable  explanations  of  the  author.  At  the 
great  free  public  libraries  there  were  fruitless  inquiries 
after  A  Treatise  on  the  Human  Conscience  and  the 

S3 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

name  of  Christopher  Love  was  heard  with  a  frequency 
that  would  have  flattered  the  owner  of  it  seventy 
years  before. 

"Now,  Anthony  must  speak,"  Agatha  said  to  her 
self,  when  she  read  the  National  in  the  morning.  "  I 
must  use  all  my  influence  to  make  him." 

"I  hoped  you  would  have  invited  Paul  Dunster," 
she  said  to  Muir,  as  they  drew  near  Harvard  Bridge 
late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day.  She  did 
not  dare  approach  her  topic  otherwise  than  indi 
rectly. 

"Why?"  Muir  asked. 

"Because  I'm  fond  of  him." 

"That's  a  sufficient  reason  for  my  keeping  him 
away.  When  I  give  a  tea-party  I  don't  want  any 
one  you're  fond  of  at  it,  except  myself." 

"I  call  that  rather  cowardly.  It's  as  if  you  were 
afraid  of  a  rival.  Now,  if  I  were  in  your  place  I  should 
want  to  show  myself  daringly  confident." 

"That  might  be  foolishly  confident.  The  greater 
the  treasure  a  man  carries  the  more  fear  he  has  of 
being  robbed." 

"And  yet  one  can't  help  admiring  the  man  who 
throws  open  his  doors  and  says,  Come  and  rob  me,  if 
you  dare." 

"I  do  admire  him — from  a  distance.  Personally  I 
prefer  to  hide  my  treasure  in  my  heart  and  run  no 
risks." 

"So  that  was  why  you  didn't  invite  Mr.  Dunster 
this  afternoon?" 

"Not  at  all.  I  didn't  invite  him  because  I  didn't 
think  of  it.  I  will  go  further  and  say  that  I  shouldn't 
have  invited  him  if  I  had  thought  of  it." 

84 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"  Really?  I  imagined  that  you  and  he  were  rather 
good  friends." 

"Our  work  throws  us  together;  but  I  think  Dun- 
ster  owes  me  something  of  a  grudge.  I  really  can't 
find  it  in  my  heart  to  blame  him  much.  I've  too  great 
a  sympathy  with  any  poor  devil  who  is  disappointed." 

"Does  Mr.  Dunster  come  under  that  heading?  I 
didn't  know  it." 

"He  wanted  to  do  two  things,  and  he  hasn't  done 
them.  He  hasn't  done  them,  but  I  have.  It  isn't 
in  human  nature,  then,  not  to  have  some  amount  of 
envy." 

"Oh  yes,  it  is,  Anthony;  I'm  sure  you're  wrong. 
It's  not  only  in  human  nature  in  general,  but  it's  in 
Paul  Dunster 's  nature  in  particular.  I've  known 
him  since  we  were  children  together  and  if  there's 
one  thing  absent  from  his  character  it's  any  kind  of 
littleness.  He's  dogged  and  tactless  and  pugnacious, 
perhaps.  He  is  so  straightforward  and  high-minded 
that  he  has  no  mercy  on  any  one  who  isn't.  He  has 
neither  pity  for  moral  weakness  nor  tolerance  for 
moral  error.  I  admit  all  that,  but  he's  not  mean." 

"Very  well,  dearest.  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  But 
ever  since  my  book  has  had  some  success  he  has — " 

"He  has — what,  Anthony?" 

"He  has  seemed  unpleasantly  conscious  that  his 
had  none." 

"Ah!  his  little  book  on  The  Uneducated  Public.  It 
wasn't  very  pleasant  reading,  I  must  say.  It  was 
too  much  like  himself — too  positive,  too  downright 
and  perhaps  too  true.  But  that's  just  like  Paul.  I 
don't  wonder  his  book  failed.  What  was  the  other 
thing  he  tried  to  do  and  couldn't?" 

85 


The   Steps    of   Honor 

"Don't  you  know?     You  ought  to." 

"I  haven't  the  slightest  idea." 

"  It's  rather  hard  on  him  that  that,  too,  has  been  my 
great  success — my  greatest  success.  You  can  guess 
now,  can't  you?" 

"I  won't  pretend  to  misunderstand  you,  Anthony, 
but  again  you're  wrong.  Paul  never  felt  for  me  any 
thing  but — and  if  he  had  I'm  sure  he  wouldn't  bear 
you  ill-will  on  that  account." 

"As  I  said  before,  Agatha,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  I 
ask  no  other  proof  than  what  you  say." 

They  reached  the  middle  of  the  bridge  and  by 
the  same  impulse  stopped  to  look  over  the  broad 
reaches  of  the  Back  Bay,  bordered  all  round  its  irreg 
ular  oval  by  lines  of  light.  They  had  strolled  this 
way  on  leaving  Westmorland  Hall,  where  Muir,  as 
proctor,  had  his  rooms.  He  had  invited  Agatha  to 
tea  and  had  included  Mrs.  Wollaston  and  Cousin 
Abby  Leggett  to  give  the  necessary  air  of  propriety. 
It  had  been  a  pleasant  little  festival  and  Agatha 
would  have  enjoyed  herself  had  she  been  free  from 
anxiety  at  heart.  Every  one  knows  that,  for  the 
present,  Westmorland  Hall  is  the  last  cry  of  under 
graduate  luxury.  It  stands  in  Mount  Auburn  Street 
and  in  its  dignity  and  seclusion  is  in  marked  contrast 
with  the  little  wooden  buildings  round  about.  Its 
exterior  reminds  the  visitor  of  the  Cour  des  Adieux  at 
Fontainebleau ;  its  entry  is  like  that  to  the  House  of 
Lords;  the  grand  staircase  is  modelled  on  that  of  the 
Winter  Palace  at  St.  Petersburg;  the  ideas  for  the 
marbles  come  from  the  Vatican  and  those  for  the 
stained  glass  from  the  Cathedral  at  Bourges.  For 
his  apartment  the  student  pays  more  than  he  will 

86 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

give  later  for  a  house ;  but  the  generous  father  has  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  that,  at  least,  he  has  given 
his  son  a  handsome  start  in  life. 

"Is  this  a  bit  of  the  Boston  Athenaeum?"  Agatha 
asked,  looking  about  Muir's  sitting-room,  "or  the 
boudoir  of  a  prima  donna?" 

"If  one  can  judge  a  man  by  his  surroundings," 
Miss  Leggett  observed,  "I  should  put  you  down  as 
half-seer  and  half -sybarite." 

"Which  might  not  be  very  far  wrong,"  Muir  ad 
mitted,  laughing. 

Mrs.  Wollaston  said  nothing,  because  she  thought 
much.  She  took  note  of  everything  and  even  glanced 
surreptitiously  into  the  bedroom.  She  meant  to  de 
scribe  every  extravagant  detail  to  her  husband  on 
her  return  ;  for  she  knew  his  opinions  on  the  lux 
ury  with  which  latter-day  students  were  permitted 
to  install  themselves.  She  disapproved  of  everything 
from  the  embroidered  bed-spread  to  the  Crown  Derby 
cups;  but,  like  a  wise  lady,  she  poured  out  the  tea  in 
silence. 

Muir  was  pleased  with  the  success  of  his  entertain 
ment  and,  as  the  ladies  were  leaving,  suggested  to 
Agatha  that  they  should  take  a  walk,  while  Mrs. 
Wollaston  and  Miss  Leggett  went  home.  She  ac 
cepted  the  proposition  the  more  willingly  from  the 
fact  that  it  would  give  her  the  occasion  she  sought  of 
speaking  again  of  the  claims  of  Christopher  Love. 
She  had  approached  the  subject  once  or  twice  at  tea, 
but  he  had  evaded  it.  Now,  as  they  stood  on  the 
bridge,  she  shrank  from  bringing  it  up  again.  The 
October  evening  was  closing  in  and  it  was  almost 
dark.  Behind  Corey  Hill  the  sunset  light  was  only  a 

87 


The    Steps   of  Honor 

dash  of  red  and  orange  barred  with  black.  On  both 
sides  of  the  bay  the  water  was  spangled  with  the  re 
flection  of  the  lights  above. 

"I  love  this  view,"  Agatha  said.  "It's  so  like 
Venice." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  Muir  agreed,  "if  one  has  a  great  deal 
of  imagination." 

"Of  course  it  isn't  like  Venice,  really,"  Agatha 
corrected;  "but  these  wide  spaces  of  lagoon  with  the 
lights  beyond  do  remind  one  of  the  Lido  and  the 
Grand  Canal." 

"All  I  see,"  Muir  observed,  "is  Boston's  great  lost 
opportunity.  I  can't  be  pleased  with  the  beauty  there 
is,  because  I'm  always  thinking  of  the  beauty  there 
might  have  been." 

"That,"  Agatha  laughed,  "is  the  supersensitive, 
hypercritical,  fatuously  fastidious  Harvard  determi 
nation  never  to  be  pleased  with  anything,  nor  to 
perceive  a  merit  where  you  can  pick  a  flaw.  It  isn't 
natural  to  young  men;  they  begin  it  in  their  junior 
year.  It's  always  a  pose  with  them  till  it  becomes  a 
habit  and  when  it  becomes  a  habit  it  is  a  very  bad 
one.  I'm  surprised  that  you  should  have  it,  An 
thony — you,  a  world-renowned  writer  and  an  assist 
ant  professor  of  English." 

He,  too,  laughed,  and  was  secretly  flattered  at 
being  accused  of  the  traditional  Harvard  supercili 
ousness.  As  there  was  no  one  in  sight  he  slipped  his 
hand  into  hers. 

"And  there's  another  thing  that  surprises  me,"  she 
ventured,  boldly,  feeling  that  it  was  now  or  never. 

"What  next?"  he  asked,  good-humoredly. 

"  It  is  that  a  man  like  you,"  she  went  on,  trying  to 
88 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

keep  the  same  tone  as  heretofore,  "should  let  himself 
be  touched  in  his  honor  and  make  no  defence." 

He  drew  his  hand  hastily  away. 

"  I've  been  touched  in  my  honor?"  he  said,  sharply. 
"I  wasn't  aware  of  it." 

"That  man  in  Detroit — "  she  began,  nervously. 
"It's  in  the  National  again." 

"Pooh!  pooh!"  he  ejaculated,  contemptuously. 
"Do  me  the  favor  of  putting  that  out  of  your  head, 
as  I've  put  it  out  of  mine." 

"  But  I  can't,  Anthony.  I  can't  while  other  people 
don't." 

"Other  people?  Whom  do  you  mean  by  other 
people?" 

.  "I  mean  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wollaston,  and  Cousin 
Abby — and  the  public  in  general,  too,  for  aught  I 
know." 

"The  public  in  general,"  he  said,  in  an  irritated 
tone,  "can  usually  be  trusted  to  mind  its  own  busi 
ness.  As  for  the  Wollastons — " 

"They  never  say  anything  of  you  but  what  is  kind, 
Anthony,  dear,"  she  interposed,  hurriedly. 

"Why  should  they?" 

"But  they  do  think  you  ought  to  speak." 

"I've  no  objection  to  their  thinking  what  they 
like.  Let  them  hold  their  opinion  and  I'll  hold 
mine." 

"Forgive  me,  Anthony,"  she  pleaded,  putting  her 
hand  rather  timidly  on  his  arm.  "Of  course  you 
know  better  than  I  do;  but  still  I  can't  think  that 
you're  doing  yourself  justice.  I  feel  very  strongly 
about  it.  You're  so  grand  and  noble  and  superbly 
independent  that  you  can't  realize  what  a  little  thing 

89 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

like  this  is  to  me.     When  your  honor  is  attacked  I 
feel  much  worse  than  if  it  were  my  own." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  use  the  word  honor  in  this 
connection,  Agatha,"  he  said,  coldly. 

"But  it's  the  only  one,"  she  insisted.  "I'm  not 
alone  in  thinking  so." 

"And  I  should  much  prefer,"  he  continued,  with  a 
hint  of  haughtiness  in  his  voice,  "that  you  shouldn't 
discuss  me  and  my  affairs  with  other  people." 

"But  when  it's  in  the  public  press,  Anthony,"  she 
cried,  almost  with  tears,  "and  a ^ topic  of  common 
conversation!" 

She  was  a  high-spirited,  quick-tempered  young 
woman,  who  was  never  slow  to  resent  the  slightest 
suspicion  of  command  or  disrespect.  But  when 
strong  natures  bend,  they  bend  low ;  and  it  was  a 
proof  of  the  extent  to  which  he  had  mastered  her  that 
she  bore  herself  towards  him  meekly. 

"Then  all  the  more  reason  why  you  should  show 
me  the  consideration  of  being  silent." 

"How  can  I  be  silent  when  a  subject  like  this  is 
brought  up?  "Who  could  be  silent?" 

"Nobody  but  you  and  me,  dear,"  he  said,  more 
gently.  "For  us  it  is  the  only  course  consistent 
with  dignity.  As  I've  already  told  you,  I've  made 
it  a  rule  never  to  reply  to  criticism,  however  un 
just—" 

"But,"  she  broke  in,  repeating  Miss  Leggett's 
words,  that,  ever  since  they  were  spoken,  had  burned 
in  her  brain  like  fire — "but,  Anthony,  love,  this  isn't 
a  criticism,  it  is  an  accusation." 

He  started  nervously,  pulling  his  arm  away  from 
her  hand. 

90 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"An  accusation!"  he  cried,  proudly.  "Against 
me!  Who  says  so?" 

"It  doesn't  need  that  any  one  should  say  so.  It's 
there  in  print.  People  have  been  reading  and  talking 
of  it  for  two  weeks  past  and  now  more  than  ever. 
Every  one  is  waiting  for  you  to  speak." 

"And  if  I  don't?" 

"Then,  Anthony,  this  man  Love  will  keep  at  you 
till  you  do.  Mr.  Wollaston  says  so." 

"Be  good  enough  not  to  keep  quoting  the  Wollas- 
tons  at  me,"  he  requested,  peevishly.  "What  does 
Mr.  Wollaston  know  about  this  business?" 

"He  doesn't  know  anything  about  the  business, 
but  he  does  know  something  about  the  man.  He 
says  he  isn't  a  person  of  no  consequence.  He  says 
he's  a  man  of  the  highest  character  and  reputation. 
He  says  that  he's  not  a  man  of  whose  challenge  you 
can  afford  to  take  no  notice.  He  says — " 

"That  will  do,  dear,  if  you  please.  I've  the  great 
est  admiration  for  Professor  Wollaston,  but  I'm  not 
interested  to  know  his  opinion  on  my  private  affairs." 

"Nor  mine,  either,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  sadly. 

"  Yours  is  another  matter,  dearest.  At  present  you 
are  under  his  influence,  but  when  you  come  more  fully 
under  mine — " 

"  I  shall  still  be  allowed  a  mind  of  my  own,  I  hope," 
she  said,  with  a  rather  hopeless  attempt  to  speak 
jestingly.  "You  won't  deprive  me  of  all  privilege, 
capacity  and  possibility  of  private  judgment." 

"Oh  yes,  I  shall,"  he  answered,  in  the  same  spirit, 
catching  eagerly  at  this  change  of  tone.  "When  two 
persons  are  as  united  as  we  shall  be,  neither  will  have 
a  mind  of  his  own,  for  each  will  have  the  other's." 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

She  allowed  the  conversation  to  be  turned  thus  into 
another  channel.  She  felt  it  was  useless  to  say  more, 
at  least  for  the  present.  If  Anthony  would  not  de 
fend  himself,  it  seemed  to  her  that  there  was  no  other 
course  than  to  get  some  one  else  who  would  do  it. 
Persis  Wollaston  had  already  told  her  that  the  man 
who  would  undertake  the  task  was  ready  to  her 
hand. 

The  darkness  increased.  More  lights  came  out,  to 
be  tremblingly  reflected  on  the  water.  On  the  es 
planade  behind  Beacon  Street  the  line  of  gas-lamps 
ran  for  miles  like  a  long,  straight  string  of  fire.  On 
the  Cambridge  marshes  factories  flared  with  elec 
tricity.  Far  away,  towards  Charlestown,  the  radi 
ance  of  the  city  pulsating  up  into  the  night  was  white 
and  punctured  with  innumerable  points  of  light,  as  if 
the  Milky  Way  had  fallen  on  the  land. 

"We  ought  to  be  going  back  now,"  Agatha  said, 
after  a  long  pause.  "Cousin  Abby  will  think  I'm 
late." 

They  retraced  their  steps,  but  they  scarcely  spoke 
again.  When  they  parted  it  was  as  if  with  some  em 
barrassment  on  both  sides. 

On  entering  the  house  Agatha  went  straight  to  her 
carved  and  gilded  desk  and  wrote : 

"DEAR  PAUL, — It  is  more  than  three  weeks  since  I  re 
turned  from  Lenox  and  you  have  not  been  to  see  me.  Do 
you  call  that  kind?  In  saying  that  I  shall  be  at  home  to 
morrow  evening  I  am  offering  you  a  last  chance  of  repent 
ance.  Should  you  not  avail  yourself  of  it  then,  I  fear,  the 
door  of  grace  must  be  closed. 

"Yours  reproachfully, 

"AGATHA  ROYAL." 

92 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

When  she  had  written  this  she  felt  a  slight  lifting 
of  her  depression.  She  was  not  quite  sure  yet  that 
she  meant  to  send  it,  but  it  gave  her  at  least  the  relief 
of  doing  something  instead  of  sitting  with  helpless, 
folded  hands. 


IX 

'INGE  the  evening  when  they  had 
dined  together  at  Mrs.  Wollaston's, 
Muir  and  Dunster  had  not  met.  That 
they  should  do  so  sooner  or  later  was 
inevitable,  but  Muir  postponed  the 
moment  by  keeping  out  of  Dunster's 
way.  He  did  it  adroitly,  without  any  appearance  of 
taking  flight.  Rather  than  do  it  otherwise  he  would 
not  have  done  it  at  all.  So  when,  on  the  morning 
following  his  walk  with  Agatha,  he  saw  Dunster  cross 
ing  the  Yard  in  his  direction  he  went  to  meet  him. 
Muir  was  on  his  way  from  Massachusetts  Hall  to 
Sever;  it  would  have  been  easy,  therefore,  to  slip  into 
the  library  and  allow  his  enemy  to  pass  by.  To  that 
small  cowardice  he  would  not  stoop  and,  whatever  he 
felt  inwardly,  he  carried  himself  serenely.  When 
they  came  abreast  he  gave  Dunster  a  just  perceptible 
nod  and  would  have  continued  towards  Sever  had 
not  Dunster  stopped,  confronting  him. 

"Look  here,  Muir,"  he  said,  "I  want  a  word  with 
you." 

Muir  stood  still,  looking  down  at  him  as  a  man 
might  look  upon  a  boy. 

"I  just  wanted  to  say  to  you,"  Dunster  explained, 
"that  I've  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  repeated  at 
tacks  upon  you  in  the  National." 

94 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"What  the  devil  is  it  to  me  whether  you've  had  or 
not?"  Muir  flung  at  him,  contemptuously.  He  would 
not  have  spoken  so  only  that  he  was  exasperated  by 
the  half-serious  jokes  at  his  expense  to  which  he  had 
just  been  listening  at  his  club-table.  "  I  never  thought 
of  you  in  one  way  or  another  in  the  matter.  You're 
the  sort  of  bumptious  little  man  who  might  do  any 
thing  he  liked  and  no  one  would  ever  mind  it." 

"  Then  I  shall  have  less  compunction  in  the  future," 
Dunster  returned,  white  to  the  lips,  but  forcing  him 
self  to  speak  coolly.  "I  was  beginning  to  feel  some 
thing  like  pity  for  you.  I  had  half  a  mind  to  let  you 
off.  I  said  to  myself  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
congenital  dishonesty,  and  that  if  it  was  your  case  I 
shouldn't  take  the  pains  to  punish  you.  But  since — " 

"Why  don't  you  write  another  book  on  it  and  ad 
dress  it  to  the  uneducated  public?" 

"If  I  did  I  shouldn't  steal  it." 

"You  might  do  worse,  Dunster.  It  would  be  a 
better  book  for  not  being  all  your  own." 

"Like  yours,"  Dunster  retorted. 

"Like  mine,  if  it  pleases  you  to  say  so.  Now,"  he 
continued,  "will  you  get  out  of  my  way?  I'm  in  a 
hurry." 

As  he  spoke  he  laid  his  hand  on  Dunster's  shoulder 
and  turned  him  gently  from  the  path.  A  dozen 
students  passing  at  the  moment  saw  the  act  and 
laughed.  Dunster  lived  through  several  seconds  of 
almost  uncontrollable  anger.  Only  the  dread  of 
making  a  foolish  public  scandal  held  him  back,  so  that 
Muir  went  unmolested  on  his  way.  Then  Dunster, 
too,  putting  no  further  mental  restraint  upon  himself, 
passed  on  towards  Calverley. 

95 


The    Steps    o,f    Honor 

On  entering  his  rooms  he  found  the  note  that 
Agatha  had  written  last  night  and  finally  decided  to 
send.  His  first  impulse  was  to  refuse  the  invitation. 
As  long  as  she  remained  engaged  to  Muir  he  could  not 
resume  his  friendship  with  her.  He  even  wrote,  ex 
cusing  himself;  but,  in  the  end,  desire  got  the  better 
of  discretion  and  he  tore  his  letter  up. 

"It's  really  good  of  you  to  come,"  Agatha  said, 
when  he  entered  her  library  about  nine  that  evening. 
She  rose  from  the  arm-chair,  where  she  had  been  read 
ing,  and  came  forward  with  hand  outstretched  to 
meet  him.  It  struck  him  that  in  the  last  few  days  a 
change  had  come  over  her.  She  was  less  a  girl  and 
more  a  woman.  She  was  handsomer  and  more  strik 
ing.  Her  presence  made  itself  more  quickly  felt.  In 
her  soft,  white,  lacelike  dress  she  had  a  grace  and  dis 
tinction  such  as  belonged  to  no  other  woman  he  knew. 
In  an  instant  old  feelings  he  had  tried  to  master  cried 
again  within  him.  Before  he  had  fairly  crossed  the 
threshold  his  resentment  towards  Anthony  Muir  was 
complicated  by  a  sense  of  jealousy.  He  had  denied 
to  himself  that  he  had  been  jealous  hitherto;  now  he 
avowed  it  boldly  and  made  no  further  effort  to  keep 
the  passion  down. 

"Thank  God  I  can  ruin  him!"  was  the  thought  that 
shot  through  his  mind.  "Then  I  may  get  her." 

"It  was  good  of  you  to  ask  me,"  he  echoed,  in  re 
sponse  to  her  words,  for  his  emotions  had  passed  in 
seconds. 

"Yes,  it  was  good  of  me,"  she  returned,  as  they 
shook  hands.  "Any  other  woman  in  my  place  would 
have  been  offended  because  you  hadn't  come  be 
fore." 

96 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"But  I  knew  you  wouldn't  be,"  he  said,  as  they 
both  sat  down. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  am,"  she  declared.  "I'm  of 
fended  at  you  and  disappointed  in  you  and  disillu 
sioned  about  you.  If  I  hadn't  wanted  to  see  you  so 
much  I  should  never  have  humiliated  myself  to  the 
point  of  writing  to  you." 

Dunster  looked  up  with  a  pleased  smile.  Agatha 
thought  the  cast  in  his  eye  more  noticeable  than  it 
used  to  be. 

"That's  the  advantage  of  making  one's  self  rare," 
he  replied.  "One  becomes  sought  after,  which  is  so 
much  more  flattering  than  to  have  people  see  enough 
of  you." 

"  But  I  shouldn't  have  seen  enough  of  you  even  if 
you  had  come  of  your  own  accord." 

"Be  thankful  that  I've  come  now.  You  wouldn't 
complain  if  you  knew  how  much  of  a  compliment  it 
is  for  me  to  go  to  see  any  one.  I've  become  a  terrible 
bear  since  last  year  and  ladies  have  to  blandish 
pretty  hard  at  me  to  get  me  out  of  my  den  at 
all." 

"Oh,  if  blandishing  is  all  you  want — " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  You  were  always  good  at  that. 
But  even  smiles  begin  to  lose  their  effect  on  me.  I 
shouldn't  have  come  this  evening  if  it  hadn't  been 
through  fear  of  dealing  you  a  cruel  blow." 

"You  would  certainly  have  done  that.  Cousin 
Abby  has  gone  out  to  dine  with  some  relatives  and 
Mr.  Muir  was  obliged  to  attend  a  meeting,  so  that  I 
should  have  been  all  alone." 

"When  you're  my  age  you'll  find  that  solitude  is 
the  only  condition  that  is  really  worth  while." 
7  97 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"Thank  you,  Paul.  I  really  begin  to  see  what  a 
sacrifice  you've  made  for  me  this  evening." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  he  returned,  with  a  deprecat 
ing  gesture.  "I'm  always  willing  to  put  myself  out  for 
a  friend.  I'd  do  as  much  for  you -any  day — provided 
it  isn't  too  often.  By-the-way,"  he  asked,  looking  up 
with  that  glance  which  made  the  cast  in  his  eye  so 
visible,  "are  you  always  going  to  call  me  Paul?" 

"Yes.     Why  not?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     I  just  asked  the  question." 

"Aren't  you  always  going  to  call  me  Agatha?" 

"  Not  if  you're  going  to  be  married." 

"  I  am  going  to  be  married;  but  I  suppose  a  married 
woman  can  have  friends." 

" No,  she  can't;  she  must  drop  the  men  she  used  to 
know." 

"That's  ridiculous.     It  isn't  reason." 

"But  it  is  experience.  Marriage  has  a  terribly 
narrowing  effect  on  life.  It  shuts  the  horizon  down 
to  one  small  household  and  makes  all  that  is  outside 
seem  like  empty  space.  How  can  a  married  woman 
keep  her  friends  when  she  has  no  longer  a  place  in 
which  to  put  them?" 

"But  I  know  plenty  who  do  keep  them." 

"Pardon  me,  you  know  plenty  who  think  they  do, 
or  pretend  they  do,  but  they  really  don't.  Friend 
ship  implies  a  mutual  sympathy  which  the  very  fact 
of  marriage  has  negatived." 

"I'm  sorry  for  that,"  Agatha  said,  passing  gradu 
ally  from  the  tone  of  banter  to  one  of  seriousness. 
"I'm  sorry  for  that, because  I  thought  that,  whatever 
happened,  you  and  I  should  always  go  on  as  we've 
done  hitherto." 

98 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"That's  very  kind  of  you,  but  you  know  we 
couldn't." 

"If  you  were  to  get  married  I  should  remain  your 
friend." 

"  That  again  would  be  impossible.  You  might  want 
to  and  I  might  want  you  to,  but  there  would  be  my 
wife.  She  might  be  the  sweetest  creature  ever  made 
and  yet  she'd  be  an  antagonistic  principle." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  I  know  you'd  be  my  friend  if 
I  was  married  twenty  times  over — " 

"In  that  case  there'd  be  safety  in  numbers." 

"And  I  cling  to  that  belief,"  she  went  on,  still  speak 
ing  seriously,  "because  I  happen  to  be  in  a  position 
where  I  want  a  friend." 

"You're  not  married  yet,  you  know;  so  that  what 
I've  said  can't  be  considered  to  count."  To  himself 
he  added.  "She's  found  him  out.  She's  turning  to 
me  to  help  her." 

"I  want  some  one  to  help  me,"  she  said,  as  if  in 
answer  to  his  thought.  "And  I  don't  know  any  one 
to  whom  I  can  turn  so  readily  as  to  you." 

"I'm  sure  you  don't,"  he  responded,  with  blunt 
sympathy.  "Tell  me  all  about  it  and  we'll  put  it 
right  together." 

"I  knew  you'd  say  so,"  she  returned,  lifting  her 
eyes  gratefully  towards  him,  "so  I'll  come  to  the 
point.  Do  you  ever  read  the  National?" 

"Sometimes." 

"Well,  in  the  last  number  there  was  a  second  letter 
about  Anthony." 

"I  saw  it." 

"And  what  did  you  think  about  it?" 

He  was  not  prepared  for  this  question  so  he  parried. 
99 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"What  did  you  think  of  it?"  he  asked. 

"To  me,"  she  answered,  slowly,  "it  seemed  very 
serious." 

"It  seemed  so  to  me,"  he  allowed  himself  to  say. 

"As  I  read  it,"  she  continued,  "it  seemed  like  a 
grave  charge  against  Anthony's  honor.  It  is  as  if  he 
had  been  accused  of  theft  or  falsehood." 

"Exactly." 

"Do  other  people  think  so?" 

"Every  one." 

"But  Anthony  doesn't,"  she  burst  out.  "That's 
what  worries  me.  That's  what  is  making  me  un 
happy.  Anthony  laughs  at  it  and  treats  it  as  of  no 
importance  at  all." 

"I'm  surprised  at  that." 

"I  want  him  to  write  to  the  National  to  deny  it." 

"That's  what  he  ought  to  do." 

"But  he  won't.  And  so,  Paul,  I  thought  that  you 
who  write  so  well  and  are  so  good  a  friend  would  do 
it  for  him." 

She  leaned  forward  and  looked  at  him  beseechingly. 
Dunster  tried  to  speak,  but  could  find  no  words.  He 
could  only  return  her  gaze  stupidly. 

" I?"  he  gasped,  when  he  had  regained  his  power  of 
articulation.  "Do  you  mean  that  I  should  take  up 
the  cudgels  for  Muir?" 

"He'd  do  it  for  you,"  she  said,  reproachfully. 
"There's  no  one  so  generous  or  so  ready  to  help  an 
other — unless  it's  you,  Paul." 

"But  Muir  wouldn't  let  me,"  he  argued,  trying  to 
evade  a  direct  refusal.  "Muir  would  resent  my  in 
terfering  in  his  affairs." 

"He  needn't  know  anything  about  it  till  it's  done. 
100 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

You  would  only  have  to  write  to  the  National  to  say 
that  the  charge  brought  forward  by  this  man  Love 
isn't  true.  Every  one  would  respect  your  signature 
and,  as  far  as  Anthony  is  concerned,  I  should  take  all 
the  responsibility  on  myself." 

"But,  you  see,"  Dunster  urged  again,  "I'm  not 
supposed  to  know  anything  about  it." 

"You  know  this  accusation  isn't  true,"  she  said, 
proudly.  "  I  should  think  any  man  was  free  to  speak 
out  on  a  point  like  that." 

"I  may  know  morally  that  a  thing  isn't  true  and 
yet  not  be  able  to  prove  it.  The  negative  stand  in  a 
case  like  this  doesn't  do  any  good.  Muir's  duty  is  to 
challenge  Love  to  produce  his  proof.  When  that's 
done  Muir  can  explain,  but  nothing  is  possible  be 
fore." 

"But  couldn't  you  challenge  Love  to  produce  his 
proof?  You've  got  the  book  from  which  he  pre 
tends  to  quote.  You  said  so  the  other  night  at 
dinner." 

"You  mustn't  think  me  unfriendly,  Agatha,  if  I 
say  no.  You'd  be  putting  me  in  an  impossible  posi 
tion.  If  Muir  doesn't  speak,  no  one  can  speak  for 
him." 

"I  could,"  she  declared,  "if  I  had  the  book. 
Couldn't  you  lend  it  to  me?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  bringing  out  the  word  with 
almost  brutal  emphasis. 

"That  is,  you  see  a  man  being  shot  at  and  you  will 
neither  go  to  his  help  yourself,  nor  let  any  one  else  go. 
It's  an  attitude  that  I  should  hardly  have  expected 
in  you,  Paul." 

"Why  doesn't  he  defend  himself?" 
101 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"Because  he's  too  proud  and  independent  and  in 
different  to  reply  to  anything  so  base." 

"That's  all  very  fine,  Agatha,  but  it's  too  top-lofty 
to  be  practical." 

"And  it's  at  such  a  time  as  this,"  she  went  on, 
"that  a  man — especially  a  man  like  Anthony — should 
be  able  to  count  upon  his  friends  to  do  for  him  what 
is  beneath  his  dignity  to  do  for  himself." 

Dunster  gazed  uncomfortably  around  the  room 
but  found  nothing  to  reply. 

"I  suppose  you  consider  yourself  his  friend?"  she 
questioned. 

"We've  never  known  each  other  very  well,"  he  an 
swered,  awkwardly. 

"You  don't  believe  in  him!"  burst  from  her  lips, 
before  she  had  time  to  check  the  words. 

He  looked  at  her  helplessly.  He  had  none  of  the 
small  arts  of  evasion  that  soften  truth.  He  could 
only  sit  and  stare. 

"You  don't  believe  in  him!"  she  repeated.  "And 
yet  I  thought  you  were  my  friend.  I  should  have 
trusted  to  you  and  leaned  on  you  and  looked  up  to 
you,  and  now  I  see  I've  been  mistaken.  I  didn't  think 
you  capable  of  littleness — " 

"I'm  not,"  he  broke  in,  roughly. 

"Then  lend  me  the  book." 

"No,"  he  roared,  "I  shall  not  lend  you  the  book. 
You  couldn't  do  anything  with  it  if  you  had  it." 

"Do  you  mean  that  the  book  proves  the  accusa 
tion  against — " 

"Look  here,  Agatha,"  he  interrupted,  springing  to 
his  feet,  "I'm  not  going  to  talk  about  this.  I'm  going 
away.  You  shouldn't  have  asked  me  here  to-night. 

102 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

I'm  sorry  I  came.     I  might  have  known  something 
would  happen  to  distress  you — " 

"Oh  no,  Paul,"  she  said,  with  a  nervous  smile, 
speaking  coldly.  She  controlled  herself  and  rose  in 
her  turn.  "I'm  not  distressed,  I'm  only  undeceived. 
I  had  thought  of  you  rather  differently,  that's  all. 
You've  always  seemed  to  me  so  generous  and  large- 
minded  and — " 

"  And  now  you  see  I'm  not.  Well,  let  it  go  at  that, 
Agatha.  I'm  off.  Good-night.  I  sha'n't  see  you 
again  very  likely  till — till — till  after  you  and  Muir  are 
married." 

"So  Anthony  was  right  about  him,"  she  thought, 
as  she  heard  him  close  the  street  door  behind  him. 
"He  is  jealous  and — small." 

"What  a  damned  fool  I  am,"  Dunster  was  saying 
to  himself.  "I  had  my  chance  and  I  couldn't  make 
use  of  it.  I  had  only  to  lend  her  the  book,  and  she 
would  have  seen  for  herself.  But  just  because  she 
looked  at  me  like  that  and — and — " 

He  switched  his  cane  fiercely  about  him  and  rushed 
on  through  the  darkness  towards  Calverley.  ' '  I  could 
have  ruined  him  and  I  didn't  do  it.  What  a  damned 
fool  I  am!" 

By  the  time  he  reached  his  rooms  he  was  calmer. 
He  was  not  accustomed  to  go  into  heroics  or  indulge 
himself  in  excitement.  He  threw  off  his  overcoat 
and  hat  and  relieved  his  feelings  by  stirring  up  the 
fire.  It  was  the  first  chilly  night  of  the  season  and 
the  blaze  was  cheerful.  It  lit  up  the  room  without 
the  assistance  of  any  other  light. 

"I  could  have  ruined  him  and  I  didn't,"  Dunster 
said  to  himself  again.  "I  could  have  lent  her  the 

103 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

book,  and  she  would  have  seen  for  herself.  My 
whole  life  might  have  been  different  If  she  hadn't 
looked  at  me  so  piteously!" 

He  walked  to  the  bookcase  and,  running  his  finger 
along  a  row  of  bindings,  stopped  at  a  volume  in  dull, 
old  brown.  He  drew  it  out  and  opened  it,  catching  a 
word  here  and  there  in  the  dancing  firelight.  The 
paper  was  yellow  with  age  though  the  print  was  clear 
and  unfaded.  Then  he  dropped  into  an  arm-chair 
and  stretched  out  his  legs  towards  the  blaze.  He 
held  the  closed  volume  in  his  hand,  but  did  not  look 
at  it  again. 

"She  thinks  that  if  she  had  the  book  she  could 
answer  the  charge  against  him." 

The  thought  brought  to  his  lips  a  faint ,  contemptu 
ous  smile — a  smile  that  remained  even  when  his 
mind  had  passed  to  something  else. 

For  half  an  hour  he  sat  there  motionless.  By-and- 
by  his  hand  stole  into  the  book — into  the  middle — 
anywhere.  He  did  not  raise  his  eyes  nor  look  to  see 
what  he  was  doing.  With  a  slow  movement  he  tore 
out  a  leaf  and  tossed  it  into  the  fire,  then  another 
and  another  and  another,  then  two  or  three  at  a  time, 
then  many  at  a  time.  He  tore  slowly,  deliberately, 
thoughtfully.  Some  of  the  leaves  fell  about  his  chair 
or  at  his  feet.  The  book  was  big  and  he  went  on  tear 
ing  with  the  same  quiet  motion. 

It  was  a  long  bit  of  work,  but  it  was  done  at  last. 
There  was  nothing  left  but  the  two  heavy  covers  and 
the  fly-leaf  on  which  was  written,  in  an  antiquated 
hand,  "Andrew  Muir,  Edinburgh,  1831."  That,  too, 
went  on  the  fire.  The  covers  curled  and  crackled, 
the  fly-leaf  shrivelled  away  at  once.  He  stooped  and 

104 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

picked  up  the  pages  scattered  about  the  floor.  They, 
too,  went  on — they,  too,  disappeared. 

Then  Dunster  sank  into  his  chair  again,  while  the 
flames  flickered  over  the  black,  bulbous  heap  of  ashes 
that  had  been  A  Treatise  on  the  Human  Conscience. 

"I  could  have  ruined  him,"  he  said  to  himself  for 
the  fiftieth  time.  "I  could  have  set  her  free.  I  could 
have  won  her  at  last,  perhaps.  I  haven't  done  it. 
I  haven't  had  the  nerve.  I'm  a  fool.  I'm  a  damned, 
damned  fool!" 


X 

>HE  next  number  of  the  National  con 
tained  still  another  letter  from  Chris 
topher  Campbell  Love  and  a  further 
instalment  of  comparative  extracts; 
but  if  Mrs.  Wollaston's  Bee  had  not 
met  on  the  day  following  the  appear 
ance  of  the  review  the  family  might  not,  even  then, 
have  been  moved  to  decisive  action.  Life  in  Old  Cam 
bridge  is  occupied  with  principles  rather  than  with 
personal  affairs.  Conversation  is  discreet  and  tem 
perate,  as  it  should  be  in  a  university  city  where  the 
Puritan  spirit  lingers  still.  If  you  know  a  bit  of  news 
it  is  a  reason  for  not  telling  it ;  if  you  want  to  know  it 
you  must  go  at  least  as  far  as  Boston.  An  expression 
of  public  opinion  is,  therefore,  difficult  to  get  at;  it 
may  be  doubted  whether  there  would  be  an  uttered 
public  opinion  at  all  if  it  were  not  for  the  Bees.  There 
the  Puritan  spirit  relaxes  a  little ;  there  the  cultivated 
mind  ceases  at  times  to  keep  vigilant  watch  upon  the 
tongue;  there  the  confidence,  born  of  long-tried  friend 
ship,  slips  into  speech,  and  there  may  be  even  a  little 
gossip — the  most  delicate,  kindly,  intellectual  gossip 
— such  gossip  as  John  Endicott's  wife  might  have  al 
lowed  herself  in  her  talks  with  Margaret  Winthrop. 

The  Bee  is  a  national  American  institution,  but  in 
Old   Cambridge,  one  may  be  allowed  to  think,  it 

106 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

comes  to  its  perfection.  As  soon  as  a  woman-child 
is  born  she  is  born  into  a  prospective  Bee.  She  is  not 
in  swaddling-clothes  before  her  mother  begins  to 
think  of  her  "coming-out."  " She  will  come  out  with 
the  class  of  such-and-such  a  year,"  the  lady  says  to 
herself,  pressing  the  soft,  little  bundle  of  life  against 
her  breast,  "  and  she  will  be  in  the  Bee  with  So-and-so 
and  So-and-so  and  So-and-so."  She  does  come  out 
with  the  class  of  such-and-such  a  year,  and,  sure 
enough,  she  joins  the  Bee  with  So-and-so  and  So- 
and-so  and  So-and-so.  The  class  —  the  Harvard 
class,  be  it  understood — is  composed  of  honest  young 
men  and  the  Bee  is  full  of  sweetly  pretty  girls  — 
mostly  with  a  serious  turn  of  mind  —  all  in  their 
budding-time.  There  are  four  bright  years  of  sing 
ing  and  dancing  and  making  merry,  and  whatever 
else  is  done  at  Harvard,  and  then  the  class  goes  the 
way  of  all  classes.  But  the  Bee  remains.  The  Bee 
is  an  institution.  The  Bee  is  a  regiment.  The  Bee 
has  a  corporate  life.  The  Bee  goes  on.  Older  Bees 
are  marching  before,  younger  Bees  are  pressing  be 
hind.  Widowed  of  its  class  the  Bee  sets  to  work  to 
do  the  best  it  can  without  it.  Some  of  its  members 
marry,  some  take  up  special  courses  of  study,  some 
work  for  their  living,  some  give  themselves  to  phil 
anthropy,  some  remove  to  other  places,  some  die; 
but  the  Bee  goes  on.  When  the  ranks  are  thinned, 
new  aspirants,  selected  with  closer  scrutiny  than  the 
pearl-merchant  bestows  upon  the  most  precious  Ori 
ental  specimen,  are  voted  in.  Come  what  may,  the 
Bee  goes  on.  Never  was  there  a  case  known  in  his 
tory  of  a  Bee's  disbanding  or  becoming  extinct. 
Those  who  entered  at  eighteen  watch  one  another's 

107 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

freshness  fade,  while  the  hair  turns  gray  and  the 
wrinkles  come.  Still  they  lunch  and  sup  and  sew  to 
gether  week  after  week  and  year  after  year,  finding 
support  in  the  mere  fact  of  life-long  comradeship  and 
things  worked  for,  talked  of,  and  laughed  at  in  com 
mon. 

Mrs.  Wollaston  had  gone  through  all  the  regulation 
processes.  She  had  come  out  with  the  class  of  1859, 
and  she  had  joined  the  Bee  with  those  who  were 
eighteen  or  thereabouts  that  year.  There  had  been 
over  twenty  of  them,  of  whom  ten  or  twelve  remained. 
Of  these  ten  or  twelve  the  majority  were  assembled 
at  Mrs.  Pinckney's  (it  was  her  turn  to  have  the  Bee) 
on  the  day  following  the  appearance  of  the  third  letter 
on  Anthony  Muir  in  the  pages  of  the  National. 

Every  one  knows  the  "  Pinckney  house  "  in  Divinity 
Avenue,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  because  of  the 
fact  that  it  lies  so  conveniently  near  the  college 
grounds  as  to  be  a  veritable  Naboth's  vineyard  to  the 
authorities.  It  is  an  open  secret  that  the  law  school 
would  have  begged,  borrowed,  or  stolen  it  long  ago, 
were  it  not  for  the  circumstance  that  those  who  have 
the  interests  of  Harvard  at  heart  are  praying  that 
"Old  Pinckney  "may  leave  it  to  the  university  in  his 
will.  It  is  one  of  those  square,  spacious,  pyramid- 
roofed  mansions,  once  so  numerous  in  Old  Cambridge, 
but  now  gradually  disappearing  to  give  place  to  huge, 
red-brick  college  halls. 

The  ladies,  who  had  lunched  in  the  fine  old  dining- 
room,  were  at  work  in  a  large,  comfortably  furnished 
parlor.  The  room  was  flooded  with  sunshine,  the  last 
dahlias  were  still  in  bloom  in  the  garden,  and  round 
the  windows  the  ampelopsis  crept  in  tendrils  of  crim- 

108 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

son  and  orange  that  rivalled  the  autumn  flowers. 
Under  the  manipulation  of  experienced  fingers  strips 
of  flannel  and  cotton  cloth  took  forms  remotely  re 
sembling  those  of  human  limbs.  Conversation,  dis 
creetly  languid  at  first,  grew  more  animated  as  the 
afternoon  passed  on. 

"  Isn't  that  enough  of  one  size  for  this  time?"  asked 
Mrs.  Henty,  whose  husband  was  dean  of  the  School 
of  Scientific  Warfare.  She  was  a  pretty  little  woman 
with  flaxen  hair  and  china-blue  eyes.  Nature  had 
meant  her  for  a  flirt  of  the  harmless  domestic  variety, 
but  circumstances  had  been  against  her.  As  the 
daughter  of  a  professor  of  Greek  and  the  sister  of  one 
of  Geology  and  the  wife  of  a  dean  of  a  School  of  War 
fare  her  aptitudes  had  never  been  allowed  play.  She 
was  like  a  primrose  that  has  been  called  upon  to  be 
come  an  edelweiss.  The  cold,  classic  heights  of  learn 
ing  had  not  been  suited  to  her,  and  she  was  passing 
into  middle  age  with  a  gracefully  vacuous  air  of 
having  missed  her  vocation.  "Isn't  that  enough  of 
one  size  for  this  time?"  she  repeated,  pointing  to  a 
pile  of  incipient  shirts. 

"Enough  for  this  time  and  for  all  time,  for  all  time 
and  for  all  eternity." 

This  unexpected  reply  came  from  Mrs.  Bootle,  the 
handsome,  haggard,  hawk-eyed  wife  of  the  Professor 
of  Oriental  Psychology.  Mrs.  Bootle  had  not  been  a 
charter-member  of  the  Bee,  she  had  been  "voted  in." 
Her  husband  was  a  comparatively  late  comer  to  Cam 
bridge.  He  was  from  the  West,  and  was  not  a  Har 
vard  man  at  all.  She  herself  had  been  accepted  by 
the  Bee,  perhaps  rather  hastily,  on  the  ground  that 
by  birth  she  was  a  Biddle  ;  but  there  was  a  tacit 

109 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

feeling  now  that  she  was  the  one  mistake  the  Bee  had 
ever  made.  It  was  not  that  there  was  anything 
against  Mrs.  Bootle;  it  was  only,  as  Miss  Wimble  put 
it,  "that  her  personality  was  emphatic"  and  that 
she  lacked  the  restraint  of  speech  indigenous  to  Old 
Cambridge. 

"I  should  think,"  Mrs.  Bootle  went  on,  in  response 
to  the  half-smiling,  half-startled  looks  around  her, 
"that  in  the  years  that  this  Bee  has  been  at  work  it 
had  made  garments  enough  to  cover  every  human 
body  ever  born.  It  often  occurs  to  me  that  our  phil 
anthropic  energy,  by  creating  a  demand  for  orphans, 
creates  also  the  supply." 

"You  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Arlington  Revere,  "that  if 
smaller  provision  were  made  for  orphans  there  would 
be  less  temptation  for  people  to  leave  them  behind 
them  when  they  die." 

Mrs.  Arlington  Revere  was  the  one  avowedly  world 
ly  member  of  the  Bee.  She  was  rich  and  a  widow, 
and  the  fact  that  she  had  no  children  of  her  own  en 
abled  her  to  patronize  promising  young  men.  Her 
beauty  had  been  of  the  large,  fair,  dimpling  sort  that 
lasts  late  into  life,  and  even  now,  at  sixty,  more  than 
its  traces  remained.  Old  Pinckney  admired  her,  and 
had  called  her  the  Duchesse  in  "  Le  monde  ou  I' on 
s'ennuie."  Everybody  laughed  at  this,  though  Old 
Pinckney  himself  was  the  only  one  who  saw  the  double 
edge  to  his  saying. 

"But  they  can't  help  it,"  said  Mrs.  Wollaston,  as 
she  lilted  about  from  one  group  to  another,  flourish 
ing  a  baby's  garment  in  her  hand.  "I  don't  suppose 
any  one  leaves  orphans  on  purpose." 

"It  really  may  be  questioned,"  said  Miss  Dor- 
no 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

Chester,  looking  up  from  her  work  through  eye-glasses 
from  which  a  long,  black  ribbon  hung — "it  may  be 
questioned  whether  less  philanthropy  wouldn't  make 
the  unthrifty  classes  thriftier." 

She  was  a  sweet  woman,  descended  from  a  long  line 
of  Puritan  ministers.  Her  face  had  that  wistful, 
aescetic,  refined  expression  often  transmitted  from  an 
ancestry  whose  ideals  have  been  high  and  narrow. 
"Aspiration  without  wings,"  Old  Pinckney  had  nick 
named  her,  and,  with  the  discretion  that  belongs  to  a 
community  in  which  no  one  would  say  an  unkind 
thing,  the  epithet  was  handed  on. 

"Less  philanthropy  might  make  the  unthrifty 
classes  thriftier,  but  it  would  certainly  leave  naked 
children  nakeder." 

This  was  the  opinion  of  Mrs.  Pinckney,  a  little, 
round,  cushion-like  lady,  who  was  as  good  as  she 
looked.  In  a  land  where  thoughtful  minds  are  trying 
to  elevate  charity  to  the  rank  of  a  science,  Mrs.  Pinck 
ney  was  frankly  reactionary.  Her  first  impulse  with 
regard  to  the  poor  was  to  put  money  in  their  pockets 
and  clothes  on  their  backs.  She  was  never  happier 
than  when  filling  the  larder  for  the  wife  and  children 
of  some  drunken  wretch  who  ought  to  have  done  it 
himself.  It  was  very  unwise  on  her  part  and  brought 
her  into  constant  collision  with  Miss  Dorchester,  who 
held  office  in  the  Associated  Charities. 

"Sympathy  and  counsel  may  be  all  very  well,"  Mrs. 
Pinckney  admitted,  "but  my  first  concern  is  to  see 
that  these  poor  waifs  at  Avonhill  have  something  to 
keep  their  legs  warm." 

"  If  their  parents  had  only  been  taught  foresight — " 
Miss  Dorchester  began,  in  a  lady -like  tone  of  argument. 

in 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"There  I  agree  with  you,"  laughed  Mrs.  Arlington 
Revere.  "I  believe  you  ought  to  do  everything  for 
the  poor  but  help  them." 

"You'll  never  make  me  think  that,"  Mrs.  Pinckney 
declared.  "Help  them  first  and  teach  them  fore 
sight  afterwards  seems  to  me  the  best  gospel." 

"Still,"  said  Mrs.  Bootle,  returning  to  the  charge, 
"  I  should  think  that  by  this  time  the  wealth  of  Avon- 
hill,  like  that  of  the  Oriental  sheik,  would  largely 
consist  in  garments.  There  must  certainly  be  ten 
changes  of  raiment  for  every  child — " 

"  Children  are  so  destructive,"  smiled  Miss  Bunning, 
the  president  of  the  Mothers'  Conference.  No  one 
could  look  at  Miss  Bunning  without  seeing  that  she 
was  the  New  England  spinster  by  irresistible  calling. 
She  had  the  clear,  rarefied,  virginal  aspect  of  star 
light  upon  snow.  She  had  meant  to  dedicate  her  life 
to  the  care  of  a  widowed  father,  only  he  had  frus 
trated  her  plans  by  marrying  again.  Since  then  she 
had  devoted  herself  to  children  in  the  abstract.  She 
edited  a  monthly  publication  called  Child  Culture  and 
was  a  strong  advocate  of  the  theory  that  babies  should 
not  be  allowed  to  wear  clothing  until  after  the  age  of  two. 

"I'm  the  mother  of  six,"  Mrs.  Bootle  said,  in  reply 
to  Miss  Bunning.  "  No  one  knows  better  than  I  how 
destructive  they  are.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it's  nothing 
but  maternal  jealousy  that  makes  me  sigh  to  see  so 
much  beautiful  attire  going  to  Avonhill,  when  my 
boys  have  scarcely  one  shirt  to  wear  while  the  other 
is  in  the  wash." 

A  smile  went  round.  No  one  was  actually  shocked 
and  yet  it  was  felt  that  no  one  but  Mrs.  Bootle  would 
have  expressed  just  that  idea  in  just  that  way. 

112 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"How  strange  for  a  Biddle  to  talk  like  that,"  Miss 
Dorchester  whispered  to  Mrs.  Wollaston. 

"It  is  a  little  blunt,"  Mrs.  Wollaston  admitted, 
"but  I  don't  suppose  she  means  any  harm." 

"  We're  as  poor  as  church  mice,"  Mrs.  Bootle  began 
again. 

"Scholarship  is  rarely  lucrative,"  interposed  Miss 
Wimble,  the  sister  of  the  well-known  writer  on  botan 
ical  subjects.  "Great  research  often  yields  very 
small  results."  Miss  Wimble  had  herself  produced  a 
work  on  The  Extinct  Wild  Flowers  of  New  England, 
and  so  was  qualified  to  judge. 

"Harvard,"  said  Mrs.  Bootle,  keeping  close  to  the 
subject  on  her  mind,  "is  like  an  army  equipped  with 
the  smartest  uniforms  and  the  quickest  firing  guns, 
but  without  a  commissariat.  She  can't  find  space  on 
earth  for  the  hideous  buildings  she  is  rich  enough  to 
put  up,  while  she  lets  her  professors  starve." 

"  Oh,  they  don't  really  starve,"  Mrs.  Wollaston 
cried,  waving  the  baby's  garment  with  a  gesture  of 
protestation.  "The  very  poorest  of  them  have  some 
thing  to  eat." 

"And  it's  the  way  people  leave  their  money,"  Miss 
Wimble  explained.  "I've  heard  my  brother  say  that 
it  isn't  the  president's  fault  if  the  professors  are  not 
well  paid.  He  wouldn'femind  if  they  were  all  wealthy. 
But  people  have  such  an  inconsiderate  zeal  for  build 
ing  halls  that  will  carry  their  names  down  to  posterity. 
It  is  a  form  of  posthumous  celebrity  with  which  I 
have  little  sympathy." 

"And  I  none  at  all,"  Mrs.  Bootle  declared.  "It's 
time  that  some  of  the  wealthy  testators  you  speak 
about  were  thinking  less  of  the  machinery  of  educa- 

8  113 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

tion  and  more  of  the  men  who  make  the  wheels  go 
round.  If  it  wasn't  for  my  husband's  books  we 
couldn't  live." 

"Speaking  of  books,"  said  Mrs.  Arlington  Revere, 
smiling  sweetly  towards  Mrs.  Bootle,  "I  wonder  if 
any  one  has  read  the  last  National  ?" 

Every  one  had  read  it,  and  every  one,  except  Mrs. 
Wollaston,  avowed  the  fact.  That  astute  little  lady 
bent  her  head  over  her  sewing  and  held  ner  peace. 
She  judged  wisely  that  if  she  listened  and  said  nothing 
her  connection  with  Anthony  Muir  and  Agatha  Royal 
might  be  overlooked.  In  this  way  she  might  learn 
something  of  the  trend  of  public  sentiment  to  carry 
back  to  Mr.  Wollaston. 

There  was  at  first  a  pause  of  hesitation.  The  men 
tion  of  the  National  brought  the  same  subject  to 
everybody's  mind  and  yet  no  one  liked  to  start  it. 
It  was  Miss  Dunning  who  found  the  way  to  lead  deli 
cately  up  to  it. 

"  I  thought  Dean  Henty's  article  excellent,"  she  said, 
turning  to  the  wife  of  that  distinguished  man.  "  His 
views  regarding  the  effect  of  scientific  warfare  on 
modern  motherhood  exactly  coincide  with  mine. 
And  then  his  style  is  so  perfect.  A  prose  Browning 
I  call  him.  One  really  has  to  read  everything  he 
writes  two  or  three  times  before  one  knows  what  he 
means,  and  one  isn't  quite  sure  then." 

"I  must  tell  him  you  said  so,"  Mrs.  Henty  replied, 
smiling.  "I  know  he'll  be  pleased." 

Then  Miss  Wimble  took  a  step  nearer  the  objective 
point  of  the  conversation. 

"I  didn't  at  all  agree  with  Professor  Mauser's  arti 
cle  as  to  the  effect  of  the  Martinique  eruptions  on 

114 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

West  Indian  vegetation.  I  thought  I  had  sufficiently 
dealt  with  that  theory  in  my  preface  to  The  Extinct 
Wild  Flowers  of  New  England." 

"That  was  an  admirable  letter  from  Professor 
Riggs,"  said  Miss  Blight,  "on  the  unusually  early  ap 
pearance  of  the  silver-crested  red-start.  He  isn't 
right,  however,  when  he  speaks  of  the  similarity  of  his 
notes  with  those  of  the  robber-thrush.  The  two  are 
quite  different  to  an  attentive  ear." 

Miss  Blight,  a  shy,  stout  lady,  was  an  authority  on 
birds.  She  knew  every  one  from  every  other  and 
had  reduced  their  songs  to  music.  It  was  not  often 
that  Miss  Blight  spoke  at  meetings  of  the  Bee, but  when 
she  said  anything  at  all  it  was  to  real  purpose.  This 
was  the  case  now,  when  she  mentioned  letters ;  for  on 
the  subject  round  which  other  ladies  only  circled  Mrs. 
Bootle  pounced  with  the  precision  of  a  bird  of  prey. 

"  And  I,"  she  said,  going  directly  to  the  mark,  "have 
never  read  anything  in  my  life  so  foolish  as  the  letters 
about  that  poor  young  Muir." 

There  was  a  perceptible  movement  in  the  company. 
The  matter  was  in  hand  at  last.  Each  lady  grasped 
her  sewing  in  workman-like  fashion  and  made  herself 
comfortable  in  her  seat.  Mrs.  Wollaston  bent  herself 
over  her  task  and  affected  not  to  hear. 

"Why  do  you  say  foolish?"  Mrs.  Arlington  Revere 
asked,  in  innocent  determination  to  keep  the  subject 
up. 

"Well,  isn't  it  foolish?"  Mrs.  Bootle  questioned  in 
return.  "  Somebody  says  he  copied  his  book  from 
somebody  else.  What  does  it  matter  if  he  did?  If 
my  husband  wrote  all  his  books  out  of  his  own  head 
we  should  have  been  in  the  almshouse  long  ago." 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"You  do  him  injustice,  I'm  sure,"  Miss  Wimble 
protested.  "Every  line  he  writes  is  so  convincing. 
His  last  work — the  one  on  Assyrian  ethics — touched 
me  profoundly." 

"I  told  him  most  of  what  to  say  in  that,"  Mrs. 
Bootle  declared,  audaciously.  "I  got  a  good  deal  of 
it  out  of  The  Ladies'  Home  Journal." 

"What  has  given  New  England  literature  its  value 
hitherto,"  said  Miss  Dorchester,  looking  up  again 
from  her  sewing  and  speaking  in  a  precise,  didactic 
tone,  "has  been  its  sincerity.  Emerson  wasn't  al 
ways  elegant,  Hawthorne  wasn't  always  broad,  Long 
fellow  wasn't  always  strong;  but  all  of  them  were 
always  true.  There  have  been  greater  groups  of 
writers  in  the  history  of  the  world,  but  never  one 
more  eager  to  give  out  only  what  belonged  to  itself 
and  what  it  was  convinced  of." 

"I  don't  care  anything  about  that,"  Mrs.  Bootle 
declared,  with  an  air  of  large-minded  superiority  to 
the  trivial.  "They're  all  dead,  while  this  poor  young 
Muir  is  living;  and  he's  very  good-looking,  too." 

"But  isn't  it  for  us  New  England  women,"  Miss 
Dorchester  continued,  with  a  sweet,  patient  smile 
towards  Mrs.  Bootle,  "to  be  very  jealous  of  any  de 
preciation  in  the  moral  tone  of  what  our  authors  give 
to  the  world?  Don't  you  think  so,  Isabel?"  she 
asked,  turning  to  include  Miss  Bunning,  of  whose 
sympathy  she  was  sure. 

"I've  the  greatest  liking  for  Mr.  Muir,"  Miss  Bun 
ning  admitted.  "You  may  remember  that  I  quoted 
with  approval  in  the  July  number  of  Child  Culture 
some  remarks  on  the  child's  conscience  taken  from 
his  book.  They  struck  me  at  the  time  as  being  sug- 

116 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

gested  by  Professor  Royce,  but  I  didn't  go  into  the 
point  further.  I've  no  doubt  that  he'll  be  able  to 
prove  his  innocence  of  the  charge  against  him,  but 
until  he  does  one  must  naturally  hold  one's  judgment 
in  suspense." 

"Like  the  guillotine,"  suggested  Mrs.  Arlington 
Revere,  flashing  her  bright  smile  around  the  company. 
"That,  too,  was  held  in  suspense  until  it  came  down 
and  chopped  somebody's  head  off." 

"My  brother,"  said  Miss  Wimble,  "has  made  a  cal 
culation  on  the  chances  of  any  one's  expressing  pre 
cisely  the  same  series  of  thoughts  in  precisely  the 
same  terms  as  some  one  else.  He  says  that  given  the 
number  of  words  in  the  English  language  and  the 
number  of  ideas  in  the  human  mind,  Mr.  Muir's 
chance  would  be  about  one  in  five  hundred  trillions, 
four  hundred  billions,  three  hundred  millions,  and — 
and — I  forget  the  smaller  numbers." 

"There  would  be  that  chance  at  least,"  Mrs.  Pinck- 
ney  said,  charitably.  "Who  knows  but  what  the 
poor  young  man  may  have  stumbled  on  it?" 

"It  would  be  hardly  likely,  would  it?"  Miss  Bun- 
ning  said,  in  just  the  slightest  tone  of  incredulity. 

"It's  hardly  likely  that  you'll  get  the  prize  in  a 
lottery  when  you  take  a  ticket  for  it,"  Mrs.  Pinckney 
returned,  "and  yet  some  person  does  get  it." 

"Sally  Pinckney,  don't  you  say  another  word," 
Mrs.  Arlington  Revere  cried,  holding  up  a  warning 
finger.  "You're  so  good-hearted  that  you  take  up 
all  the  most  desperate  cases.  When  you  begin  to 
plead  a  man's  cause  it  must  already  be  as  good  as 
lost." 

"But  none  of  us  would  say  that  of  Mr.  Muir's," 
117 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

Miss  Dorchester  protested;  "we  only  ask  him  to  prove 
himself  not  guilty.  His  case  attracts  all  the  more 
attention  from  his  book  having  been  so  warmly  wel 
comed  by  the  public." 

"And  for  that  reason  it  is  all  the  more  sad,"  Miss 
Bunning  said,  sententiously. 

A  few  minutes  passed  in  silence.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  subject  had  been  exhausted,  when  Miss  Blight 
came  to  the  rescue  and  gave  it  another  turn. 

"I  wonder  how  Agatha  Royal  feels  about  it?"  she 
hazarded,  looking  around  her  with  shy  watchfulness, 
as  if  she  were  listening  to  a  bird-call. 

"  I  suppose  she's  like  the  rest  of  us,"  Miss  Dorchester 
sighed.  "  She  probably  doesn't  know  yet  how  she  feels." 

"It's  a  fortunate  thing  for  her,"  said  Mrs.  Arling 
ton  Revere,  "  that  it  has  all  come  out  before  marriage 
and  not  afterwards." 

"That's  very  true,"  Miss  Bunning  agreed.  "I've 
had  a  feeling  from  the  first  that  that  wedding  wouldn't 
take  place." 

"He'd  have  to  go  away,  I  suppose,"  Miss  Dor 
chester  surmised. 

"Certainly,"  Miss  Bunning  replied,  in  a  tone  of 
authority.  "The  Faculty  would  require  that,  at  the 
very  least." 

"  I  know  people,"  said  Mrs.  Henty,  "who've  already 
withdrawn  the  invitations  to  a  dinner  they  were  going 
to  give  for  him  and  Agatha." 

"On  what  grounds?"  Mrs.  Bootle  demanded,  with 
an  air  of  hawk-eyed  indignation. 

"They  said,"  replied  Mrs.  Henty,  with  a  strong 
emphasis  on  the  second  word — "they  said  it  was  ow 
ing  to  an  aunt's  death." 

118 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"  And  hadn't  she  died  ?"  Mrs.  Bootle  demanded  again. 

"Well,  yes,"  Mrs.  Henty  acknowledged.  "As  a 
matter  of  fact  she  had  died,  but  they  weren't  going 
to  say  so  until  after  the  dinner  was  over.  But  when 
this  trouble  about  Mr.  Muir  arose  they  were  so  em 
barrassed  that  they  were  obliged  to  bring  their  aunt 
forward." 

"And  now,"  said  Miss  Wimble,  "I  suppose  she'll 
break  her  engagement." 

"Would  you?"  asked  Mrs.  Bootle,  turning  on  her 
fiercely.  "Would  you  break  your  engagement  for  a 
little  thing  like  that?" 

"If  I  were  engaged,"  Miss  Wimble  answered,  with 
natural  hesitation,  "and  I  discovered  that  he  wasn't 
worthy  of  me,  I  should  feel  it  right  to  withdraw." 

"After  all,  we  don't  know  that  Agatha  has  found 
that  out  as  yet,"  Mrs.  Arlington  Revere  suggested, 
peaceably. 

"Oh  no,"  Miss  Wimble  agreed,  promptly.  "Please 
don't  think  that  I  even  hint  at  such  a  thing.  I'm 
only  supposing — only  supposing,  mind  you — that  she 
knows  the  worst.  My  brother's  calculation  seems  to 
give  Professor  Love  so  many  chances  of  being  in  the 
right." 

"I'm  supposing  that  she  knows  the  worst,"  Mrs. 
Wollaston  repeated  to  herself.  "That's  Louisa  Wim 
ble's  stand-point  and,  more  or  less  consciously,  it  is 
that  of  everybody  here.  Poor  Mr.  Muir!  Opinion 
has  already  gone  against  him.  I  don't  believe  I  need 
wait  to  hear  any  more." 

She  lifted  her  head  and  began  to  fold  her  work. 

"I  think  I'll  finish  this  at  home,  Sally,"  she  said, 
aloud,  to  Mrs.  Pinckney. 

119 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

There  was  a  slightly  startled  movement  and  a  gen 
eral  recollection  that  between  the  Royal  and  Wollas- 
ton  families  the  ties  were  strong.  Each  lady  exam 
ined  her  conscience  rapidly  to  see  whether  she  had 
said  anything  at  which  Mrs.  Wollaston  could  take 
offence,  but  acquitted  herself  of  having  spoken  in 
discreetly  or  without  charity. 

"After  all,  he  may  be  innocent,"  Miss  Bunning  said 
to  Miss  Wimble  as  they  were  going  home. 

"Very  true,"  that  lady  assented,  warmly,  "even 
though  everything  so  far  tells  against  him." 


XI 

[ELL,  I  don't  see  that  they  said 
much,"  Mr.  Wollaston  remarked, 
when  his  wife  had  given  him  an  ac 
count  of  the  conversation  at  the 
Bee. 

He  sat  in  the  gloaming,  toasting 
his  feet  before  his  study  fire.  Mrs.  Wollaston  kept  in 
the  shadow,  away  from  the  blaze.  She  still  wore  her 
bonnet  and  gloves,  as  when  she  came  in,  but  her  cloak 
was  thrown  off,  over  the  back  of  the  chair. 

"It  wasn't  what  they  said,  Hector,  but  what  they 
meant  that  was  important,"  she  returned,  with  quiet 
determination  in  her  tone. 

"They  meant  what  they  said,  I  suppose." 
"  Oh,  they  meant  a  great  deal  more  than  that.    You 
wouldn't  expect  any  of  them  to  say  all  she  thought." 
"They  wouldn't  be  much  like  other  women  if  they 
didn't  say  a  good  deal  more." 

"There  you're  wrong,  dear.  There  is  where  you 
judge  women  by  what  you  see  in  men.  A  woman 
weighs  her  words  when  a  man  doesn't  think  anything 
about  it;  and  at  our  Bee — " 

"Oh,  I  know,  I  know.  At  your  Bee  the  weighing 
of  words  is  a  fine  art.  It's  a  bit  of  feminine  Puritan 
ism  that  hasn't  escaped  my  attention.  The  typical 
Old  Cambridge  woman  will  measure  her  words  so  as 

121 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

to  convey  the  greatest  amount  of  meaning  with  the 
least  possible  responsibility  for  having  made  a  state 
ment." 

"There's  some  truth  in  that,  dear;  and  for  that  very 
reason  it  was  easy  to  see  that,  in  every  one's  opinion, 
Mr.  Muir  is  in  a  most  painful  position." 

"Pooh!"  he  ejaculated,  slipping  down  in  his  big, 
leathern  chair  and  throwing  one  leg  over  the  other. 
He  had  a  manly  dislike  to  taking  the  tone  of  public 
opinion  from  a  Bee.  He  had  been  driven  at  times 
almost  to  disavow  his  own  beliefs,  because  Miss  Wim 
ble  or  Miss  Bunning  had  declared  publicly  their  will 
ingness  to  endorse  them.  "Pooh!"  he  said  again. 
"It  will  be  time  enough  to  think  of  that  when  we 
hear  that  some  one  in  the  college  is  giving  it  serious 
attention." 

"There  wasn't  a  woman  present,  Hector,  who  hadn't 
some  close  connection  with  the  Faculty — "  she  began, 
earnestly. 

"Thank  Heaven,  there's  no  petticoat  government 
there,"  he  interposed. 

"No,  dear;  but  even  professors — even  presidents — 
can't  help  hearing  the  opinions  of  their  wives  and  sis 
ters;  and  so,  when  it  comes  to  meetings  of  the  Fac 
ulty—" 

"It  goes  in  one  ear  and  out  the  other,"  he  grunted. 

"You  mustn't  judge  them  all  by  yourself,  Hector," 
she  said,  humbly.  "There  are  very  few  of  them 
who  have  your  clearness  and  independence  of  mind. 
Naturally  I  think  as  you  think;  but  I  know  some  fam 
ilies,  even  in  the  college,  where  it  isn't  so.  You'll 
think  me  boastful,  perhaps,  but  it  has  happened  more 
than  once  that  things  which  were  thought  out  first  in 

122 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

meetings  of  our  Bee  have  been  enacted  afterwards  by 
the  Faculty." 

"Tut,  tut,  my  good  woman.  That's  nothing  but 
the  old  superstition  that  the  hand  that  rocks  the 
cradle  rules  the  world.  It  doesn't  do  anything  of  the 
kind;  and  even  if  it  did,  it  shouldn't  get  a  finger  in 
the  pie  of  Harvard.  There  isn't  a  man  who  enters 
the  college  grounds  that  doesn't  leave  the  very  rec 
ollection  that  he  has  a  wife  outside." 

"That  may  be,  dear,"  she  persisted.  "But  still  it 
is  evident  that  Mr.  Muir  is  being  talked  about.  The 
Ripley  Brownes  have  even  withdrawn  the  invitations 
to  a  dinner  they  were  giving  for  him  and  Agatha. 
Mrs.  Henty  told  us  so.  She  didn't  give  the  name — " 

"That's  like  your  Bee." 

"But  she  said  it  was  people  who  had  just  lost  an 
aunt.  The  Ripley  Brownes  have  lost  one,  and  as  they 
said  to  Agatha  the  day  she  met  them  here, '  We're  try 
ing  to  have  you  and  Mr.  Muir  to  dinner,'  I  concluded 
that  it  must  be  they.  Now,  if  the  Ripley  Brownes 
have  taken  the  matter  up,  then,  Hector,  dear,  don't 
you  think  that  we — ?" 

Mrs.  Wollaston  dwelt  on  the  last  word,  and  allowed 
her  sentence  to  die  away  into  a  significant  inflec 
tion. 

"That  we — what?"  he  asked,  with  a  jerk  of  the 
eyes  back  in  her  direction. 

"Well,  you  see,"  she  argued,  "we're  not  doing  any 
thing." 

"  What  is  there  for  us  to  do,  my  dear?  We  haven't 
sent  them  an  invitation  to  dinner,  so  we  can't  rival 
the  Ripley  Brownes  in  withdrawing  it.  I  don't  see 
what  there  is  left  for  us." 

"3 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"With  our  responsibility  towards  Agatha — "  she 
began,  tremulously. 

"  God  bless  my  soul!"  he  cried,  sitting  suddenly  up 
right,  "that  girl  will  kill  me.  I  have  no  responsibility 
towards  her  any  more  than  I  have  towards  Pocahon- 
tas.  I  washed  my  hands  of  her  when  she  came  of 
age." 

"Still,  Hector,  dear,  you  wouldn't  want  her  to 
marry — " 

"Wouldn't  want  her  to  marry!  She  can  marry  a 
Mormon,  for  anything  I  care;  she  can  marry  a  Turk 
and  go  into  a  harem.  The  more  she  marries  the 
better  I  shall  be  pleased." 

"You'd  at  least  want  her  to  be  happy." 

"I've  no  objection  to  that — none  whatever.  She 
might  be  as  happy  as  an  angel  and  I  shouldn't  inter 
fere.  What  I  protest  against  is  the  theory  that  be 
cause  she  was  my  ward  before  she  was  of  age  I  must 
father  her  and  mother  her  into  her  second  child 
hood." 

"I  don't  know  any  one,"  she  went  on,  in  her  half- 
timid,  half -determined  way,  "who  would  reproach 
himself  more  if  Agatha's  marriage  didn't  turn  out  to 
be  a  fortunate  one." 

"Now,  my  dear,  good  wife,"  he  cried,  wheeling  his 
chair  round  so  as  to  face  her  as  she  sat  in  the  shadow, 
"why  should  I  reproach  myself?  I  shouldn't  do  it 
if  our  own  marriage  had  turned  out  to  be  an  unfortu 
nate  one.  Why  should  I  begin,  then,  for  two  young 
people  whose  destinies  are  entirely  in  their  own 
hands?" 

"You've  got  too  good  a  heart,  Hector,  not  to  do 
it." 

124 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

"My  heart  is  like  a  stone — like  a  stone,  Fanny,  do 
you  hear?  It's  no  use  trying  to  work  upon  my  feel 
ings.  I'm  as  indifferent  to  antecedent  anxiety  as  I 
should  be  incapable  of  retrospective  remorse." 

"And  so  if  the  Ripley  Brownes  think  it  time  to  act," 
Mrs.  Wollaston  continued,  taking  up  again  the  argu 
mentative  thread  she  had  dropped,  "all  the  more,  it 
seems  to  me,  should  we." 

He  threw  himself  back  into  his  chair  again. 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me,"  he  asked,  in 
a  wearied  tone,  "what  you  mean  by  act?" 

"I  mean  to  do  something — to  take  some  step  to 
make  our  situation  clearer." 

"Our  situation!     What  situation?" 

"Agatha's  situation,  if  you  like  it  better,  Hector, 
dear.  I  speak  as  if  hers  was  our  own." 

"I  don't  feel  as  if  hers  was  mine.  I'm  not  en 
gaged  to  Anthony  Muir,  whatever  you  may  be." 

"I  can't  help  feeling  that  we're  losing  time.  It's 
a  month  now  since  these  charges  were  made  against 
him,  and  we've  done  nothing  whatever  to  inquire  into 
them  or  to  satisfy  ourselves  whether  there  is  any  truth 
in  them  or  not." 

"My  dear,  I'm  neither  a  grand  jury  nor  a  coroner's 
inquest.  I  don't  feel  it  my  duty — " 

"It  isn't  to  be  supposed  that  Agatha  can  do  it  for 
herself,  dear." 

"As  far  as  I  can  see,  Christopher  Campbell  Love  is 
doing  it  for  her.  She  has  only  to  sit  still  and  it  will 
be  made  as  plain  to  her  as  daylight." 

"And  in  the  mean  time  she  may  have  married 
him." 

"I  can't  stop  her  doing  that." 
125 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"Yes,  you  can,  dear.  It's  perfectly  simple.  You 
could  go  to  Paul  Dunster  and  ask  him  to  lend  you  his 
copy  of  the  original  book  from  which  Mr.  Muir  is  said 
to  have — borrowed  so  extensively." 

He  sat  up  again. 

"How  did  you  come  to  think  of  that?"  he  asked, 
with  the  air  of  being  face  to  face  with  a  wonder. 

"Just  in  the  ordinary  way,  Hector.  I've  thought 
of  it  all  along.  Mr.  Dunster  said  he  had  the  book. 
It  seems  a  natural  thing  to  ask  him  to  let  us  see  it." 

"So  it  does;  so  it  does,"  he  agreed.  "I'd  have 
thought  of  it  myself,  of  course,  if — if — if  the  idea  had 
come  to  me." 

"Of  course  you  would,  Hector,"  she  echoed.  "It 
may  have  been  something  you  said  that  suggested  it 
to  me." 

"Probably  it  was.  In  any  case  I'll  ask  Paul  Dun 
ster  for  the  book  the  next  time  I  see  him." 

"I  wouldn't  wait  till  then,  dear,"  she  counselled, 
rising  and  throwing  her  cloak  over  her  arm,  prepara 
tory  to  going  up-stairs. 

"There's  no  hurry,"  he  returned,  as  she  left  the 
room;  but  she  knew  by  the  attitude  he  took,  slipping 
down  again  in  his  chair  before  the  fire,  that  he  was 
pondering. 

When  she  saw  him  putting  on  his  overcoat  after 
dinner  she  checked  herself  just  as  she  was  on  the 
point  of  asking  where  he  meant  to  go  at  so  late  an 
hour. 

"  Better  let  him  do  it  in  his  own  way,"  she  reflected, 
like  an  experienced  wife.  "  He  has  thought  it  over, 
and  is  going  to  Paul  Dunster's." 

This  was  true;  for  twenty  minutes  later  the  pro- 
126 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

fessor  was  seated  before  the  fire  in  Dunster's  sitting- 
room  in  Calverley. 

"You're  snug  here,  Dunster,  eh?"  he  remarked, 
looking  about  him.  "Books,  pictures,  plaster-casts, 
and  fancy-work.  I  suppose  that's  the  modern  in 
structor's  idea  of  what  his  surroundings  ought  to  be. 
We  did  with  less  in  my  time." 

"I  fancy  it's  a  different  standard  of  taste — "  Dun 
ster  began,  apologetically,  taking  a  small  chair  and 
placing  himself  on  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace.  He 
was  beating  his  brains  to  find  out  why  the  old  man 
had  come. 

"That's  it,"  Mr.  Wollaston  broke  in — "  it's  a  dif 
ferent  standard  of  taste.  When  I  was  young  the  men 
had  taste  in  books  and  the  women  had  taste  in 
crochet -work.  Now  it's  the  other  way  round.  The 
men  are  connoisseurs  in  artistic  needle-work  and  the 
women  are  taking  to  the  books.  What's  that  thing 
hanging  up  there  on  the  wall?  Is  it  a  bit  of  Beauvais 
tapestry  or  a  patch-work  quilt?" 

"It's  an  old  embroidered  chasuble,"  Dunster 
laughed,  a  little  shamefacedly.  "I  picked  it  up  at 
the  Campo  dei  Fiori  in  Rome." 

" Hmph!"  he  snorted.  "What's  that  thing  on  the 
mantel-place?  Something  between  a  beer-mug  and 
a  bas-relief?" 

"That's  a  bit  of  Capo  di  Monte.  I  got  it  cheap  in 
Naples,  because  it's  cracked." 

"Hmph!  What's  in  there?"  he  asked,  pointing  to 
a  half-open  door. 

"That's  my  bedroom,  sir." 

"And  in  there?" 

"My  bath-room." 

127 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"Hmph!  We  did  without  that  in  my  time.  I 
must  say  you  coddle  yourselves  a  good  deal.  I  don't 
believe  in  it.  Halls  like  Calverley  do  as  much  harm 
to  Harvard  as  the  Golden  House  of  Nero  did  to 
Rome." 

"Oh,  Calverley  is  nothing  to  Westmorland,"  Dun- 
ster  laughed  again.  "You  should  go  in  there  some 
day,  sir — " 

"That's  Muir's  hall,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes;  and  he's  fitted  up  as  if  he  were  Madame  de 
Pompadour." 

"So  my  wife  says.  And  that  reminds  me,  Dun- 
ster,  of  what  I've  come  for.  Didn't  you  say  at  my 
house  one  day  not  long  ago  that  you  had  a  copy  of 
this  Christopher  Love  book,  about  which  the  National 
is  making  such  a  fuss?" 

"Did  I,  sir?"  Dunster  asked,  trying  to  summon  up 
an  expression  of  surprise. 

"Well,  didn't  you?" 

"If  you  say  I  did,  professor,  I  must  have  done 
so." 

"Then  I  do  say  so.  And  I  want  you  to  lend  it  to 
me." 

"But  I  haven't  got  one." 

"You  haven't  got — ?"  the  professor  began,  slowly. 

"No,  sir,"  Dunster  answered,  promptly. 

"You  mean  you've  lent  it?" 

"No,  I  haven't  lent  it." 

"Then  you've  given  it  away?" 

"No,  sir.     I  don't  really  possess  the  book  at  all." 

"Did  you  ever  possess  it?" 

"  Yes,  I  used  to  see  it  among  my  books.  But  some 
how  it  has  disappeared." 

128 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

"Stolen?    Do  you  think  Muir  could  have — " 

"Oh  no;  not  that.  Muir  wouldn't  do  that.  Oh 
no,  no,  Muir  mustn't  be  suspected — " 

"Then  somebody  else  may  have  walked  off  with  it." 

"No,  not  that  either  —  or  rather,  perhaps  so," 
Dunster  said,  confusedly.  "Yes,  I  imagine  some 
one  must  have  picked  it  up  and  carried  it  home." 

"That  ought  to  be  looked  into.  We  can't  have 
book-thieves  about." 

"Oh,  I  don't  suppose,  after  all,  that  anybody  did 
carry  it  off.  It's  just — it's  just — " 

"Disappeared,"  the  professor  suggested. 

"Yes;  exactly.  It  disappeared,"  Dunster  agreed, 
nervously. 

"Went  off  on  its  own  legs,  so  to  speak,"  the  old  man 
continued,  dryly. 

Dunster  tried  to  laugh. 

"Went  up  the  chimney,  I  dare  say,"  Mr.  Wollaston 
pursued. 

"Oh,  sir,"  Dunster  protested,  "why  do  you  say 
that?" 

"Why  do  I  say  that,  Dunster?  Just  because  I 
think  you're  the  sort  of  chivalrous  young  idiot  who 
would  make  away  with  a  compromising  document 
rather  than  have  it  lying  around  as  a  witness  against 
some  one  else." 

"You  do  me  injustice,  sir,"  Dunster  cried. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  don't  do  you  injustice  enough. 
In  my  time  young  fellows  had  energy  even  if  they  had 
no  embroidered  chasubles  hanging  on  their  walls. 
They  could  do  without  a  bath-room  at  the  head  of 
everybody's  bed,  but  they  didn't  let  slip  the  chance 
to  press  their  own  advantage." 

9  129 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"I  don't  follow  you,  sir,"  Dunster  said,  a  little 
stiffly. 

"  They  were  of  the  opinion  that  all's  fair  in  love  and 
war—" 

"But  it  isn't,"  Dunster  broke  in. 

"Now,  that's  just  what  I'd  expect  you  to  say. 
You're  one  of  those  supersensitively  honorable  chaps 
who  would  never  want  to  carry  a  point  over  a  rival  if 
he  thought  the  contest  unequal." 

"If  you  intend  that  as  a  compliment,  sir — "  Dun 
ster  began,  eagerly. 

"Oh  no,  I  don't.  I  was  going  on  to  say  that  it's 
my  belief  that  you  threw  Christopher  Love's  book 
into  the  fire  just  so  that  Anthony  Muir  might  have 
another  chance.  I'd  expect  it  of  you,  Dunster.  I've 
seen  signs  of  weakness  in  you  before  now.  It's  just 
such  a  foolish  bit  of  self-sacrifice  as  your  Puritan 
blood  would  prompt  you  to.  The  whole  history  of 
New  England  is  full  of  such  types  as  you — men  who 
show  mercy  on  every  one  but  themselves.  It's  a 
great  mistake,  Dunster.  I'm  not  surprised  at  you, 
but  it's  a  great  mistake." 

"I'm  not  doing  it,"  Dunster  cried,  passionately. 

"What !  Don't  tell  me!  Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
Christopher  Love's  book  didn't — " 

He  ended  his  sentence  with  a  gesture  of  throwing 
something  into  the  fire. 

"I  don't  admit  it,  sir,"  Dunster  replied,  with  a  red 
flush  in  his  face. 

"But  you  don't  deny  it.  Ah,  Dunster,  you 
shouldn't  let  friendship  carry  you  to  such  extremes. 
It's  all  very  well  to  be  lenient,  but  not  to  kick  a  man 
when  he's  down,  or  when,  at  least,  he's  about  to  fall, 

130 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

is  an  opportunity  wasted.  It  '11  tell  against  you  in 
the  end.  Just  because  Anthony  Muir  has  been  your 
friend—" 

"Great  Heavens,  sir!  I  loathe  the  man,"  Dunster 
cried,  springing  to  his  feet.  "Excuse  me,"  he  add 
ed,  recovering  himself  and  sitting  down  again.  "I 
didn't  mean  to  say  that.  It  slipped  out  against  my 
will.  I  don't  like  Muir.  I  can't  conceal  that  from 
you  now.  I  never  did  like  him  much.  He  isn't  my 
sort.  He's  too  polished  and  plausible — " 

"And  good-mannered,"  the  professor  put  in,  slyly. 
"I  hate  a  good-mannered  man,  myself.  Good  man 
ners  and  bad  morals,  I  always  say,  go  together.  Thank 
the  Lord,  we  don't  have  either  of  them  in  Harvard. 
So,  just  because  you  don't  like  Muir,  you  made  away 
with  a  book  that  might  be  proof  against  him.  Well, 
Dunster,  it's  worse  than  I  thought." 

"I  didn't  do  it  for  that  reason,"  Dunster  said,  un 
guardedly. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  hadn't  done  it  at  all.  But  it's 
often  that  way.  Weakness  leads  to  prevarication. 
Perhaps  you  might  as  well  tell  me  the  worst,  now, 
Dunster.  It's  just  as  easy  to  make  a  clean  breast  of 
it  while  you're  about  it." 

"I've  got  nothing  to  reproach  myself  with,  sir," 
Dunster  said,  in  a  clear,  hard  voice. 

"Well,  that  would  depend  on  the  state  of  a  man's 
conscience.  Some  people  have  a  more  delicate  sense 
of  right  and  wrong  than  others.  The  main  fact, 
however,  is  that  you  did  make  away  with  Chris 
topher  Love's  book.  That  you  don't  deny  any 
longer." 

"No,  I  don't  deny  it.     I  made  away  with  it.     It 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

may  have  been  my  public  duty  to  hold  Muir  up  to 
justice,  but — " 

"  But  you  thought  it  wasn't  your  dutv  to  turn  hang 
man  as  long  as  there's  a  hangman  appointed  by  the 
law." 

"  No,  I  didn't  think  that  at  all.  I  should  have  been 
glad  to  expose  Muir,  as  I  could  have  exposed  him  if  I 
had  kept  the  book.  I  hate  him.  It  would  be  a  sat 
isfaction  to  me  to  see  him  hissed  out  of  Harvard,  as 
he  deserves  to  be.  I  burned  the  book  because — be 
cause — " 

Dunster's  lip  trembled.  His  eyes,  with  their  cu 
rious,  astigmatized  glance,  were  feverishly  bright. 

"I  burned  the  book,"  he  began  again,  "because — 
because — Miss  Royal — " 

"Ah,  another  foolish  reason." 

"Because  Miss  Royal  loves  him,"  Dunster  finished, 
at  last,  "and  I  wouldn't  strike  at  him  when  it  meant 
wounding  her." 

The  professor  grunted,  scratched  his  head,  thrust 
out  his  under-lip,  and  shifted  in  his  seat. 

"I'm  trying  to  think,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "in 
which  of  the  older  literatures  there's  a  case  like  that. 
Dear,  dear!  Twenty  years  ago  I  should  have  had  it 
at  my  tongue's-end.  My  memory's  going.  There's 
no  doubt  about  it.  Let  me  see,  now.  I  think  it's  the 
old  Spanish  ballad  of  Dona  Pilar.  Dona  Pilar  was 
a  lady  with  two  lovers.  Their  names  were  Don  Diego 
and  Don  Felipe.  The  one  was  a  blustering  criminal, 
the  other  a  noble  gentleman.  Of  course,  being  a 
woman,  she  loved  the  brute.  Then,  for  her  sake, 
Don  Felipe  saved  the  bandit  from  the  gallows  and 
consecrated  his  life  to  the  service  of  them  both. 

132 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

There's  a  Scotch  version  of  the  story  under  the  name 
of  The  Laird  of  Blair -in-Gowrie.  You'd  be  likely  to 
find  it  in  dear  old  Child's  collection.  You  ought  to 
look  it  up,  Dunster." 

"For  what  purpose,  sir?"  Dunster  asked,  bridling 
somewhat. 

"For  the  moral." 

"And  may  I  ask  what  that  is?" 

"Only  this:  that  a  woman  who  loves  one  man  will 
accept  the  sacrifice  of  another  man  who  loves  her,  and 
take  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  don't  suppose  the 
Greek  army  thought  Agamemnon  was  doing  anything 
more  than  his  duty  when  he  offered  up  Iphigenia. 
Just  so  a  woman  finds  it  easy  that  the  man  who  loves 
her  should  mount  the  altar,  if  it  serves  the  turn  of  the 
man  she  loves." 

"Some  women  might.  I  don't  believe  all  women 
would." 

"  When  you  say  some  women,  Dunster,  you  say  all. 
I  know  them  through  and  through  and  there  isn't  a 
pinch  of  difference  between  them.  Now,  if  you  im 
agine  she's  going  to  think  more  highly  of  you  for  what 
you've  done — " 

"But  I  don't,  sir." 

"  Well,  that's  foolish,  too;  but  I  suppose  it's  just  as 
well.  She  won't  do  it,  and  by  not  expecting  it  you'll 
escape  being  disappointed.  I've  no  patience  with  the 
altruistic  romance  of  such  young  men  as  you.  It's 
archaic;  it's  even  worse,  for  it's  anachronistic;  it's  un 
practical  and  preposterous  and  ought  to  be  made 
illegal.  Well,"  he  continued,  rising,  and  standing  for 
a  minute  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  "I'd  better  be  off 
home.  I  ought  to  have  stayed  there,  for  then  I 

133 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

shouldn't  have  known  that  one  of  our  rising  young 
men  had  betrayed  so  little  common-sense  as  to  have 
burned  a  document  that  might  have  ousted  the  man 
who's  just  ahead  of  him.  If  Muir  had  gone  you 
would  have  got  his  place  and  been  made  assistant 
professor.  That's  another  thing  for  you  to  reflect  on. 
Where's  my  overcoat?" 

When  he  was  ready  to  go  he  looked  round  the  room 
again. 

"That's  the  bath-room?"  the  old  man  said,  pointing 
with  his  stick  towards  the  door. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Let  me  look  at  it." 

He  crossed  the  room  and  pushed  the  door  open. 

"My  word  of  honor!"  he  cried,  as  he  stood  on  the 
threshold  and  glanced  in.  "  Blue  tiles,  a  porcelain 
tub,  a  shower-bath,  three  kinds  of  soap,  eau-de- 
cologne,  clean  towels  enough  for  an  army,  and  an 
embroidered  bag  for  your  slippers!  It's  shameful, 
Dunster.  The  Faculty  ought  really  to  put  a  stop  to 
this  enervating  luxury.  No  wonder  the  tone  of  Har 
vard  is  going  down." 

"But  perhaps  cleanliness  is  going  up,"  Dunster 
suggested. 

"  In  my  time  we  could  keep  clean  without  so  much 
machinery.  But  I'll  be  off— I'll  be  off." 

He  shuffled  towards  the  door  of  the  apartment. 
Dunster  hurried  before  him  and  held  it  open. 

"When  I  was  an  instructor,"  the  old  man  said,  be 
fore  he  passed  out,  "if  a  professor  of  years  and  stand 
ing  paid  me  the  attention — showed  me  the  honor,  I 
might  say — of  making  me  a  visit  in  the  dead  hour  of 
the  night,  it  was  my  custom  to  speak  up  before  he  left 

134 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

and  ask  if  I  might  be  permitted  to  escort  him  home 
ward.  Those  good  old  times  went  out  when  chasubles 
and  bath-tubs  came  in." 

"Oh,  but,  professor,  do  let  me!"  Dunster  cried, 
coloring,  but  smiling. 

"No,  Dunster,  no.  It's  too  late  for  you  to  be  out- 
of-doors.  I  wouldn't  expose  you  to  the  weather. 
You'll  want  to  be  getting  your  slippers  out  of  the  em 
broidered  bag." 

"I  should  have  offered,  only  that  I  didn't  dare. 
I  was  afraid  my  company  might  be  forced  upon 
you." 

"I  could  have  judged  of  that.  If  I  hadn't  wanted 
you  I  shouldn't  have  let  you  come.  But  there,  there. 
Good-night.  Get  away  from  the  door  or  the  air  will 
blow  on  you.  Go  back  and  sit  with  your  Capo  di 
Monte  beer-mug.  Good-night,  good-night." 

He  shook  Dunster's  hand,  closed  the  door,  and  be 
gan  stumbling  down  the  stairs. 

"No,  no,  professor,"  Dunster  cried,  rushing  out, 
his  hat  in  his  hand  and  his  overcoat  across  his  arm, 
"don't  walk  down.  Let  me  ring  for  the  lift.  No 
body  ever  walks  up  or  down  stairs  in  Calverley." 

"  Now  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  us!"  Mr.  Wol- 
laston  exclaimed.  "They've  become  too  luxurious 
for  natural  locomotion  and  must  be  raised  and  low 
ered  as  if  they  had  no  use  of  their  limbs.  Well,  I  sub 
mit,"  he  grumbled,  as  he  allowed  Dunster  to  guide 
him  to  the  lift. 

When  they  were  in  the  street  he  took  the  young 
man's  arm. 

"  So  the  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,"  he  said,  re 
suming  the  earlier  theme  of  their  conversation,  "that 

135 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

you  know  Anthony  Muir  to  be  guilty  of  the  charges 
made  against  him." 

"I  do;  but  I  don't  want  to  be  a  witness  for  the 
prosecution." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before?" 

"  Because  I  waited,  sir,  for  Muir  to  tell  you  himself. 
I  shouldn't  have  let  it  out  to-night  if  you  hadn't 
forced  me." 

"Now,"  the  professor  asked,  in  the  tone,  unusual 
with  him,  of  one  seeking  advice — "now  what  would 
you  do  if  you  were  in  my  place?" 

"You  can't  do  anything,  sir.  No  one  can  do  any 
thing  without  the  original  book.  And,  as  far  as  I  am 
aware,  the  only  copy  of  that  is  in  Detroit,  unless,  as  is 
probable,  Muir  has  one  himself." 

"So  that  Muir  is  safe." 

"As  far  as  we  here  in  Harvard  can  do  anything, 
he  is." 

"And  do  you  think — of  course  I'm  only  speculat 
ing,  mind  you — but  do  you  think  it  would  be  a  good 
plan  to  let  him  stay  safe?" 

"You  mean,  to  let  him  off?  That's  something 
every  man  must  judge  for  himself,  sir." 

"But  you?     How  do  you  feel  about  it,  Dunster?" 

Dunster  stopped  in  his  walk. 

"  Mr.  Wollaston,"  he  said,  "  I  hate  the  fellow.  You 
know  that  already.  But  I  tell  you  frankly  that  I  feel 
like  a  reprieved  prisoner  ever  since  that  cursed  book 
went  up  in  smoke  and  I  haven't  got  the  responsibility 
of  breaking  another  man's  career." 

"That's  weak,  very  weak,  Dunster,"  he  said,  se 
verely.  "You  ought  to  be  more  public  -  spirited. 
You  wouldn't  be  upheld  by  a  court  of  honor,  and  if 

136 


The    Steps    o.f    Honor 

the  Faculty  knew  what  you  had  done  I  don't  know 
what  they'd  say." 

But  none  the  less  he  let  his  fingers  slip  down  Dun- 
ster's  coat-sleeve  and  pressed  the  young  man's  hand. 

"It's  a  pity  he  isn't  taller,"  Mrs.  Wollaston  said  to 
her  husband,  a  little  later,  "and  that  he  has  that  cast 
in  his  eye." 

She  had  heard  only  a  partial  recital  of  the  evening's 
conversation.  The  professor  thought  it  enough  that 
she  should  know  that  Dunster  no  longer  possessed 
the  incriminating  volume.  How  it  had  disappeared 
he  kept  to  himself. 

"I  don't  see  why  it  should  have  happened  so," 
Mrs.  Wollaston  went  on,  in  mild  complaint  against 
fate.  "None  of  the  other  Dunsters  have  casts  in 
their  eyes,  and  Frank  and  Maurice  are  tall  enough. 
Just  an  inch  or  two  would  have  made  all  the  difference 
in  the  world  to  Agatha,  and  the  match  would  have 
been  so  suitable." 

"On  such  slight,  trivial,  worthless  considerations 
do  women's  affections  hang,"  the  professor  remarked, 
scornfully,  and  shuffled  off  to  bed. 


XII 

ANTHONY  MUIR  threw  himself  half- 
dressed  into  his  big  reading  -  chair. 
He  had  risen  late  after  a  restless  night. 
That  he  had  slept  little  was  evident 
from  the  pallor  of  his  face  and  the 
dark  lines  under  his  tired  eyes.  The 
disorder  of  his  blond  hair  heightened  the  somewhat 
desperate  air  that  hung  about  him.  He  had  turned 
away  in  disgust  from  the  reflection  of  himself  in  the 
mirror,  and,  with  a  brush  in  each  hand,  had  dropped 
into  the  arm-chair.  He  was  too  weary,  too  anxious 
to  dress. 

His  blue  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  the  ashes  in  the 
grate  and  he  stared  in  a  kind  of  stupor. 

"What  a  mess  I've  made  of  it!"  he  muttered, 
aloud. 

By-and-by  he  put  out  his  hand  and  took  up  a  note 
that  lay  on  the  table.  It  was  dated  yesterday  and 
read: 

"DEAR   MUIR, — If   you   are   free   between    eleven    and 
twelve  to-morrow,  could  you  look  in  and  see  me?     I  have 
something  important  to  talk  to  you  about. 
"Yours  truly, 

"HECTOR  WOLLASTON." 

Muir  read  the  letter  for  the  twentieth  time  and 
tossed  it  back  again  on  the  table. 

138 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"The  music  is  going  to  begin,"  he  said  to  himself. 

Still  another  National  had  appeared  the  previous 
day.  In  it  there  had  been  four  long  columns  of  pas 
sages  taken  from  his  own  book  and  that  of  Christopher 
Love.  A  brief  editorial  called  on  him  to  explain;  a 
letter  from  his  publishers,  received  in  the  evening, 
invited  him  to  do  the  same.  He  was  to  have  dined 
with  Agatha  and  Miss  Leggett ;  but,  not  daring  to  face 
them,  he  had  sent  an  excuse.  Neither  did  he  venture 
to  present  himself  at  his  club-table.  There  had  been 
a  curious  attitude  towards  him  there  for  ten  days 
past;  and  the  studious  absence  of  reference,  even  in 
jest,  to  the  later  charges  in  the  National  indicated 
that  his  friends  were  taking  them  seriously.  He  had 
dined  miserably  in  a  second-rate  Boston  restaurant, 
and  had  spent  not  only  the  evening  but  the  night  in 
trying  to  plan  some  consistent  line  of  action. 

He  had  found  nothing  better  than  that  which  he 
had  followed  hitherto — the  line  of  passive  denial. 

"I  know  nothing  whatever  about  it,"  had  been  his 
unfailing  answer  to  all  Agatha's  petitions  that  he 
should  defend  himself. 

No  one  else  had  as  yet  spoken  to  him  personally  on 
the  subject,  so  that  up  to  the  present  his  system  of 
lying  had  been  simple.  But  now  it  must  become  more 
complicated.  To  the  mass  of  proof  that  could  be 
collected  against  him  he  must  present  a  strong,  un 
wavering  front.  He  would  not  tell  many  lies.  He 
would  not  expose  himself  by  making  explanations. 
He  would  keep  to  one  non-committal  formula:  "I 
know  nothing  whatever  about  it." 

"They  can't  dislodge  me  from  that,"  he  said  to 
himself  now.  "They  may  break  me  down,  but  they 

139 


can't  trap  me.  My  God,  I'm  already  thinking  like  a 
criminal!"  he  exclaimed,  almost  aloud,  and  sprang  to 
his  feet  again. 

He  planted  himself  before  the  mirror  and  began 
brushing  his  hair  with  hard,  rapid  strokes. 

"Damn  Paul  Dunster!"  he  cursed,  under  his  breath. 
"If  he  hadn't  taken  me  by  surprise,  I  shouldn't  have 
let  myself  in  for  this.  If  I  had  had  time  to  reflect  a 
minute  I  shouldn't  have  denied  before  a  tableful  of 
people  that  I  knew  anything  about  Christopher  Love 
and  his  book.  I  should  have  said,  '  Yes,  I  know  him, 
and  I've  incorporated  some  of  his  writing  with  my 
own.'  That  would  have  taken  the  wind  out  of  all 
their  sails.  No  one  would  have  bothered  about  the 
little  more  or  the  little  less.  They  would  have  taken 
my  word  for  it  without  investigation.  And  now  I'm 
in  for  this." 

He  threw  the  hair-brushes  down  and  began  search 
ing  in  a  drawer  for  a  necktie.  It  was  a  proof  of  his 
agitation  that  he  seized  the  first  one  on  which  his 
hand  fell.  No  one  in  the  university  had  such  dis 
crimination  as  he  in  what  to  wear  around  the  neck. 
The  Lampoon  had  even  published  a  mock  interview 
with  him  on  the  subject.  In  it  he  was  made  to  say 
that,  as  the  necktie  is  the  only  note  of  color  in  a 
man's  costume,  it  should  be  consistent  not  only  with 
his  character,  but  with  the  duties  or  pleasures  in 
which  he  engages  during  the  day.  Now  he  did  not 
even  look  at  what  he  was  putting  on.  It  was  a  tie  of 
a  striking  tone  of  violet — one  that  he  wore  only  when 
away  from  official  duties  or  at  a  ball-game. 

"I've  got  to  stick  to  it  now,"  he  said  to  himself,  as 
with  deft  fingers  he  fixed  the  knot  in  the  opening  of  his 

140 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

high,  stock-like  collar.  "That's  the  worst  of  it.  What 
I  said  admits  of  no  modification.  I  said  I  had  never 
heard  of  the  man.  All  the  Wollastons  will  remember 
that,  and  if  they  didn't  Paul  Dunster  is  there  to  re 
mind  them  of  it.  Then  I  must  keep  to  it.  I'd  give 
all  the  credit  the  book  has  brought  me  to  be  able  to 
say  frankly  to  the  world  that  I  did  borrow  from  him — 
but  I've  cut  myself  off  from  that." 

He  thrust  the  pearl  pin  into  the  knot  with  the  same 
feverish  carelessness,  and  turned  away  from  the  glass. 
If,  in  spite  of  his  pallor  and  his  tired  eyes,  he  was  re 
markably  handsome  as  he  stood  there  in  his  shirt 
sleeves — tall,  erect,  and  blond — it  was  certainly  not 
due  to-day  to  any  special  attention  to  dress. 

He  put  on  his  waistcoat  and  coat  with  the  same 
hasty  indifference.  He  gave  a  final  glance  at  himself 
in  the  glass,  but  it  was  from  habit,  not  from  anxiety 
as  to  how  he  looked. 

"  Only  nine,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  clock.  "  Some 
of  them  will  be  still  there.  Fisher  and  Glynn  always 
dawdle  over  their  coffee.  But  I  must  face  them.  I 
can't  wait  any  longer." 

He  put  on  a  light  autumn  coat  and  went  out. 
Once  in  the  air  he  felt  better.  The  freshness  of  the 
morning  seemed  to  blow  away  many  of  the  fears  that 
had  hung  like  cobwebs  in  his  mind. 

"After  all,"  he  reflected,  as  he  walked  briskly  to 
breakfast  at  his  club-table  in  Appian  Way,  "many 
a  man  has  done  worse.  I  didn't  borrow  from  Chris 
topher  Love  because  I  couldn't  do  as  well  myself.  I 
did  it  only  to  save  time  and  trouble.  There  was  the 
old  book,  which  I  supposed  nobody  living  had  ever 
read,  containing  page  after  page  of  just  what  I  wanted 

141 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

to  say.  Every  writer  uses  the  material  he  finds  lying 
under  his  hand.  Shakespeare  is  often  only  a  metrical 
version  of  somebody  else's  prose.  How  was  I  to 
know  that  Paul  Dunster  of  all  men  had  been  burrow 
ing  in  such  out-of-the-way  rabbit-holes?  I  don't 
blame  myself  for  anything  except  for  want  of  pres 
ence  of  mind  at  old  Wollaston's  table.  It's  perfectly 
tragic  that  my  reputation,  my  career,  my  marriage 
perhaps,  should  hang  on  the  two  or  three  words  of 
reply  that  slipped  out  then  before  I  could  check  them. 
Ah,  there's  Fisher.  He's  breakfasted,  at  any  rate. 
But  I  mustn't  show  the  white  feather  before  him. 

"Hallo,  Fisher!  I'm  late,"  Muir  said,  aloud,  as  the 
instructor  in  history  went  by.  Fisher  only  nodded. 

"Is  he  in  a  hurry?"  Muir  asked  himself.  "Or  does 
he  mean  to  cut  me?  But  there  again  my  mind  is 
taking  instinctively  the  attitude  of  the  guilty.  I 
must  fight  that.  I  mustn't  lose  my  own  self-respect. 
I  mustn't  sink  to  watching  other  people's  smiles  and 
frowns  and  to  guessing  what  they  mean  by  them." 

As  he  neared  the  house  in  Appian  Way  young 
Glynn  of  the  Latin  Department  was  leaving  it. 

"Hallo,  Glynn!  I'm  late,"  Muir  called  out, 
cheerily. 

"Yes,"  Glynn  answered,  and  turned  in  the  oppo 
site  direction. 

" Go  to  the  devil,  you  little  snob!"  Muir  said,  under 
his  breath.  As  he  ran  up  the  steps  the  hot  color 
started  to  his  face.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life 
that  this  kind  of  slight  had  ever  been  offered  him. 

"I  must  be  philosophical,"  he  reminded  himself,  as 
he  sat  down  at  the  deserted  table.  "I  shall  have  a 
certain  amount  of  cold-shouldering  to  go  through 

142 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

and  then  it  will  be  over.  It  is  part  of  the  situation 
and  there's  no  help  for  it.  I  must  expect  it  and  when 
it  comes  I  must  keep  my  temper.  I'm  stronger  and 
abler  than  all  of  them.  I  can  make  a  moral  tour  de 
force  and  dominate  them  in  spite  of  everything." 

He  gulped  down  the  strong  coffee  as  though  it 
were  brandy.  It  gave  him  courage  and  steadied  his 
nerve. 

"But  it's  the  necessity  for  doing  it  all  that  is  de 
grading,"  he  reflected,  further.  "It  seems  incredible 
that  I,  Anthony  Muir,  should  have  come  to  it.  I 
should  have  called  myself  a  man  of  honor.  I  am  a 
man  of  honor!  I  haven't  an  instinct  that  doesn't 
tingle  with  the  pride  of  being  upright.  But  I've  got 
into  this  monstrous  position  and  I  can't  get  out  of  it. 
I  lied  once  and  now  I've  got  to  go  on  lying.  It's 
frightful;  it's  damnable.  It's  as  if  I  had  slipped  into 
a  man-trap  and  were  held  fast.  Because  Paul  Dun- 
ster  surprised  me  into  saying  what  wasn't  true,  I've 
got  to  build  my  future  career  on  that  one  bit  of  false 
hood.  I've  got  to  work  on  it  and  marry  on  it.  I've 
got  to  throw  dust  in  everybody's  eyes  —  and  in 
Agatha's  eyes." 

He  swept  the  breakfast  things  away  from  him  with 
a  violent  movement. 

"Oh,  Agatha!"  he  groaned,  the  words  just  hissing 
out  between  his  teeth.  "Well,  after  all,"  he  went  on, 
as  he  pushed  back  the  chair  and  brushed  himself  free 
of  crumbs,  "after  all,  she's  happier  that  way  than  if 
she  knew  everything.  She  believes  in  me,  and  any 
thing  is  better  than  that  she  shouldn't  believe  in  me. 
It's  not  only  better  for  me,  but  it's  better  for  her.  It 
doesn  't  matter  what  I  am  as  long  as  she  doesn't  know  it. 

143 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

No  man  is  what  the  women  who  love  him  think  he  is. 
He  is  perfectly  aware  of  it,  but  it  is  useless  to  say  so. 
That's  his  moral  secret  and  they  are  all  the  happier 
for  not  being  let  into  it.  I  sha'n't  be  a  shade  more 
dishonest  than  anybody  else.  Agatha's  love  for  me 
will  be  founded  on  a  trust  that  isn't  justified,  but  I 
have  yet  to  see  the  wife  whose  castle  isn't  built  on 
some  similar  bit  of  sand." 

He  comforted  himself  with  this  thought  as  he  went 
up  Appian  Way,  crossed  the  Common,  and  continued 
towards  Sever.  He  had  a  lecture  at  ten  o'clock,  and, 
at  the  idea  of  confronting  the  amphitheatre  full  of 
undergraduates,  his  heart  sank  with  a  new  dread. 
They,  too,  had  probably  read  the  successive  numbers 
of  the  National,  and  formed  their  own  opinions.  As 
he  talked  to  them  they  would  be  sitting  on  him  in 
judgment.  It  was  possible  that  some  of  them  might 
insult  him. 

"They'll  not  dare,"  he  whispered  to  himself,  as  he 
swung  across  the  Yard  with  long,  rapid  stride.  "I 
can  quell  anything  that's  actually  face  to  face  with 
me." 

They  did  not  dare.  The  lecture  passed  off  quietly. 
A  few  of  the  students  stopped  afterwards  to  consult 
him  about  their  work.  Then  he  gathered  himself  to 
gether  for  the  interview  with  Hector  Wollaston. 

"Ah,  there  you  are!"  the  old  man  cried,  as  the  ser 
vant  showed  Muir  into  the  study.  "Sorry  I  had  to 
ask  you  to  come.  Cuts  into  the  morning,  doesn't  it? 
Now,  I  sha'n't  get  another  stroke  of  work  done  before 
lunch-time.  Come  in.  Come  in.  Sit  down  there  in 
the  arm-chair." 

Muir  entered  and  shook  hands  with  cautious  cour- 
144 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

tesy.  The  heartiness  of  the  professor's  greeting  sur 
prised  him  pleasantly,  and  yet  he  kept  himself  on  his 
guard. 

"I'm  only  too  glad  to  come  over,  Mr.  Wollaston," 
he  said,  politely,  "if  it's  any  convenience  to  you." 

"It  is  a  convenience — a  great  convenience.  I've 
been  worried  about  a  little  matter  for  some  days  past. 
There;  taste  this  sherry.  It's  some  Old  Pinckney 
sent  me  after  I'd  taken  a  course  for  him  on  the  origin 
of  Portuguese  literature.  They  all  say  it's  good,  but 
I  don't  believe  it.  I  never  touch  it  myself.  Pinck 
ney  is  no  judge  of  wine.  He's  vitiated  his  taste  by 
too  many  bitter  speeches.  I  have  to  work  this  off  on 
the  younger  generation,  who  drink  it  because  they 
don't  know  any  better." 

"The  flavor  seems  excellent,"  Muir  remarked,  eager 
to  be  propitiatory. 

"Glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  There  isn't  one  man 
in  fifty  who  knows  a  good  flavor  from  a  bad  one — un 
less  it's  among  Frenchmen.  Now,  Muir,  let's  get  to 
business." 

He  drew  up  a  small  chair  and  placed  himself  imme 
diately  before  the  younger  man.  Muir  braced  himself. 

"I've  only  got  to  be  simple,  natural,  and  unwaver 
ing,"  he  thought,  but  he  could  not  keep  his  heart  from 
beating  faster. 

"I  think  you  know  a  young  fellow  named  Charter 
house,"  the  professor  began,  to  Muir's  surprise. 

"A  clever  little  chap  —  rather  poor.  Yes,  I  do 
know  him,"  he  answered  promptly.  "He's  going  to 
try  to  trap  me,"  he  said  to  himself,  "but  he'll  have  to 
be  sharper  than  he  looks  to  do  it.  I  sha'n't  be  caught 
in  any  such  by-track  as  this." 
10  145 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"You're  his  adviser,  I  think." 

"Yes,  I  am,  sir;  though,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  I  haven't 
seen  much  of  him." 

"  I  wish  you'd  seen  more.  He's  the  nephew  of  an 
old  classmate  of  mine." 

"If  there's  anything  I  can  do  for  him,  I  shall  be 
glad  to  look  him  up.  Has  he  been  going  wrong?" 

"He  hasn't  been  going  wrong  exactly;  he  began 
wrong." 

"He  began  wrong,  but  is  going  right,"  Muir  sug 
gested  with  a  light  laugh.  He  was  beginning  to  feel 
more  at  ease.  He  fancied  he  had  mistaken  the  pro 
fessor's  motive  in  sending  for  him. 

"That  isn't  so  far  out  of  the  way,  Muir,"  the  old 
man  admitted.  "The  boy  is  building  well  on  a  bad 
foundation.  That's  the  truth  of  it." 

"He's  hard-working  and  sober,  as  far  as  I've  ever 
heard,"  Muir  observed,  his  sense  of  relief  increasing. 

"His  uncle,  old  John  Charterhouse,  of  Philadelphia, 
has  been  writing  to  me  about  him.  He's  a  good  boy 
in  his  way,  it  seems.  He  studies  well  and  lives  on 
next  to  nothing,  as  a  young  man  should.  There's 
only  one  thing  wrong — he  stole  the  money  that  brought 
him  here  and  that's  putting  him  through  Harvard." 

"Good  Lord!"  Muir  exclaimed,  with  a  start.  He 
half  laughed  and  then  grew  suddenly  grave. 

"  Yes,"  the  old  man  went  on.  "  His  uncle  has  been 
writing  to  me.  They've  just  found  it  out,  it  seems. 
The  boy  is  an  orphan.  His  father,  who  had  gone  to 
the  bad,  married  in  some  low  way,  and  this  young  elf 
is  the  result.  He  doesn't  seem  to  have  had  any 
school  but  the  gutter  till  John  Charterhouse  found 
him  as  a  sort  of  waif.  Charterhouse  is  a  wealthy 

146 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

man  and  has  a  heart  as  big  as  a  mountain — just  the 
sort  of  man  to  do  well  by  a  boy.  He  put  him  into 
an  orphanage  for  the  first  few  years.  After  that 
he  gave  him  a  place  in  his  office  at  two  dollars  a 
week  and  allowed  him  his  evenings  to  himself  so 
that  he  might  go  to  night-school.  Last  year  the 
imp  was  able  to  pass  his  finals  and  entered  college  in 
the  autumn.  John  Charterhouse  was  proud  of  him, 
and  gave  him  five  dollars  as  a  bonus  for  his  six  years' 
work.  Now,  at  the  beginning  of  his  second  year,  it 
turns  out  that  the  funds  on  which  he  came  to  college, 
and  which  he  was  supposed  to  have  saved  out  of  his 
two  dollars  a  week,  he  stole  from  his  benefactor. 
What  do  you  say  to  that?" 

The  professor  tapped  Muir  on  the  knee,  and  then 
held  himself  erect  with  an  air  of  one  who  has  given 
an  astounding  bit  of  information. 

"Say!"  Muir  returned.  "I  don't  quite  know  what 
to  say.  It's  at  least  an  original  way  of  doing  evil  that 
good  may  come.  What  do  you  think  of  it  yourself, 
professor?" 

"I  think  he  deserves  the  extremest  severity  of  the 
law,  and  so  does  Mrs.  Wollaston." 

"I  suppose  he  does,"  Muir  admitted,  "but — " 

"  But  what,  now?  You're  not  going  to  tell  me  that 
you'd  have  any  pity  on  the  chap?" 

"Certainly  not — certainly  not,"  Muir  hastened  to 
say.  "I  was  only  thinking  that  as  the  boy  is  very 
young — " 

"All  the  more  reason  why  he  should  be  sharply 
dealt  with." 

"And  probably  didn't  realize  the  full  extent  of  his 
crime — " 

U7 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"Then  this  will  be  an  opportunity  to  bring  it  home 
to  him." 

"I  was  thinking,"  Muir  pursued,  "that  if  some  one 
were  to  go  to  him — " 
*     "Well,  you're  his  adviser." 

"And  make  him  see  what  he  has  done,  from  the 
point  of  view  of  other  people — " 

"What  good  would  that  do?" 

"That,  perhaps,  the  boy  would  put  himself  right 
without  our  having  recourse  to  harsher  measures." 

"That  is  to  say,  he'd  grope  his  own  way  out  tow 
ards  what  he  ought  to  do." 

"Something  like  that,  sir." 

"  You  think  that  when  a  young  man  has  done  wrong 
it's  wiser  to  help  him  to  retrace  his  steps  rather  than 
to  punish  him." 

"You  put  it  better  than  I  could  myself,  professor." 

"Well,  now,  I  don't  agree  with  you;  neither  would 
Mrs.  Wollaston.  She'd  think  prison  wasn't  bad 
enough  for  a  boy  like  that,  and  so  would  I.  But 
you're  his  adviser.  You  do  what  you  think  is  best 
with  him,  and  I'll  get  the  uncle  to  consent.  He's  all 
for  having  him  expelled  from  college  and  sent  to  jail. 
Now  some  uncles  would  be  weak  enough  to  think  of 
the  young  rascal's  future  career — " 

"That's  a  legitimate  subject  for  reflection,  sir,  if 
you'll  allow  me  to  say  so,"  Muir  interrupted,  rather 
sententiously.  "  I  dare  say  that  a  generation  ago — " 

"In  my  time,"  the  professor  interposed,  dryly. 

"A  generation  ago,"  Muir  went  on,  feeling  himself 
more  and  more  at  ease,  "punishment  was  the  first 
thought  suggested  by  crime;  but  now,  with  our  more 
modern  ideas,  it's  reformation.  Most  philanthropists 

148 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

consider  the  hardened  criminal  to  be  rare.  They  find 
that  the  wisest  plan  is  to  develop  the  good  there  may 
be  in  the  worst  of  characters,  rather  than  merely  to 
chastise  the  evil.  The  good  becomes,  therefore,  a 
counter-agent  to  the  bad.  Right-thinking  acts  on 
wrong-doing  like  remedies  upon  disease." 

"Dear  me!  Dear  me!  That  wouldn't  be  my  way 
at  all.  But,  as  I  say,  you're  the  boy's  adviser,  so 
what  would  you  suggest?" 

"I  should  suggest,  first  of  all,  gentle  measures 
rather  than  severe  ones.  I  should  go  to  him,  if  the 
case  were  left  with  me,  and  I  should  talk  to  him.  I 
should  try  to  arouse  his  conscience  and  let  that  act. 
I  think  it  would.  It  might  require  a  little  time,  but 
in  the  end,  I  believe,  the  boy  would  be  his  own  best  re 
former.  I  should  aim  at  having  him  go  to  the  uncle 
and  acknowledge  his  fault.  If  he  did  that  much,  his 
natural  impulse  would  also  be  to  make  amends.  Of 
course,  I  can't  foresee  details,  but  that's  the  general 
effect  I  should  try  to  work  for.  I  shouldn't  resort  to 
open  or  public  measures  except  as  a  very  last  resource. 
To  do  so  at  once  would  be  to  break  the  young  fellow's 
spirit  in  advance,  without  having  given  him  a  chance  to 
put  himself  right.  I  feel  very  strongly  that  the  majority 
of  men  who  go  down,  do  so  because  they  had  no  chance 
to  recover  themselves  after  the  first  step  that  slipped." 

The  professor  was  silent  a  little  while.  He  seemed 
to  be  reflecting. 

"You're  a  wonderful  man,  Muir,"  he  said,  at  last. 
"You've  such  good  ideas.  I'm  told  your  book  is  full 
of  them.  Yes,  I  believe  you're  right.  When  a  man 
has  got  into  the  wrong  way  the  best  agent  to  bring 
him  back  is  his  own  conscience,  if  he  has  any  left. 

149 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

Well,  then,  I  leave  it  to  you.  I'll  write  to  old  Char 
terhouse  and  tell  him  to  let  the  matter  rest  for  the 
present.  Meanwhile  we'll  see  if  the  wrong-doer  can't 
be  brought  round  to  acknowledge  his  own  guilt  and  to 
make  a  fresh  start  on  an  honorable  basis.  Eh,  Muir?" 

In  the  last  two  words  there  was  a  queer,  significant 
tone  that  caused  Muir  to  start.  For  the  first  time  he 
asked  himself  if  there  were  not  in  the  professor's 
words  an  underlying  reference  to  a  case  other  than 
that  of  Johnny  Charterhouse.  But  he  put  the  sug 
gestion  from  him  and  rose  to  take  his  leave. 

"Very  well,  professor,"  he  said,  cheerily,  "I'll  do 
the  best  I  can  and  report  progress  to  you  later." 

"Yes,  yes,"  the  professor  muttered,  as  they  went 
towards  the  outer  door,  "that's  a  remarkably  good 
idea  of  yours,  Muir.  Rouse  the  conscience.  Let 
conscience  work.  Let  a  man  become  his  own  re 
former.  Now,  that's  something  I  should  never  have 
thought  of  for  myself.  When  I  was  a  young  man,  if 
we  could  escape  the  punishment  we  didn't  bother  our 
selves  about  the  crime.  But  I  see  you're  different. 
Your  ideals  are  higher,  there's  no  doubt  about  it. 
It's  the  progress  of  the  race,  I  suppose;  but  old  fel 
lows  of  my  age  can't  help  a  feeling  of  half -envious  ad 
miration  when  we  see  young  lads  of  yours  living  up 
to  a  standard  we  couldn't  reach.  By-the-way,"  he 
added,  as  they  came  out  into  the  hall  and  stood  at  the 
foot  of  the  staircase,  "when  are  you  to  be  married?" 

"Early  in  December,  I  hope,"  Muir  replied. 

"That's  too  soon.  There's  nothing  like  a  long  en 
gagement,  take  my  word  for  it.  I'd  tell  Agatha  I 
wasn't  ready,  if  I  were  you." 

"  She  wouldn't  believe  me.  And  she  said  the  other 
150 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

night  that  your  engagement  to  Mrs.  Wollaston  had 
been  a  very  short  one." 

"Yes,  and  I've  always  been  sorry  for  it,"  the  old 
man  declared,  readily.  "I  made  it  a  condition  when 
I  promised  to  marry  my  wife  that  the  engagement 
should  last  two  years  at  least.  But  afterwards  she 
wouldn't  keep  it,  she  was  in  such  a  hurry." 

A  stifled  cry  came  from  overhead. 

"Oh,  Hector,  how  can  you  say  so!  Don't  believe 
him,  Mr.  Muir." 

"Well,  if  it  wasn't  that,"  the  professor  explained, 
as  Muir  went  out,  "it  was  t'other  way  round,  which 
is  much  the  same  thing." 

Muir  walked  homeward  with  a  sense  of  relief. 

"People  may  be  thinking  less  about  it  than  I 
fancy,"  he  said  to  himself. 

When  he  reached  his  sitting-room  another  letter 
was  awaiting  him. 

"  It's  from  Stubbs,"  he  said,  as  he  glanced  at  the  ad 
dress.  "  Wants  me  to  take  another  lecture  for  him,  I 
suppose.  Why  the  deuce  can  'the  take  his  own  lectures  ? ' ' 

He  tore  the  envelope  open  with  an  impatient  jerk 
of  the  hand,  but  as  he  read  his  color  came  and  went 
with  swiftly  succeeding  emotions.  The  letter  ran : 

"DEAR  MUIR, — I  am  requested  by  the  other  men  at  our 
club  -  table  to  inform  you  that  your  explanation  of  the 
statements  concerning  you,  that  have  been  appearing  in 
the  National  for  the  last  few  weeks,  would  be  received  by 
them  with  interest.  Yours  very  truly, 

"PARKER  STUBBS." 

Muir  stood  motionless  with  the  letter  in  his  hand. 
"Hmph!"  he  ejaculated.     "They're  going  to  turn 
me  out." 


XIII 

|T  was  Muir's  first  taste  of  ignominy 
and  he  found  it  bitter.  He  had  the 
pride  of  the  man  who  has  always  been 
successful,  popular,  and  sought  after. 
In  his  own  opinion  his  personality 
was  something  sacred.  He  was  ac 
customed  to  find  himself  a  favorite  both  in  college 
and  society.  It  was  incredible  to  him  now  that  in  the 
little  group  of  intimate  friends  among  whom  he  had 
been  one  of  the  wittiest  and  most  welcome  he  should 
not  be  wanted  any  longer.  To  be  dropped  by  the 
members  of  his  club-table  was  more  of  a  disgrace,  in 
his  estimation,  than  to  be  discarded  by  his  own  fam 
ily.  As  he  took  in  the  fact  his  eyes  gleamed  with 
anger.  It  was  not  in  reason  that  Anthony  Muir 
should  be  subjected  to  an  insult.  He  had  never  ac 
cepted  one  and  should  not  do  so  now.  Flinging  the 
letter  into  the  smouldering  fire  he  sat  down  at  his 
desk  and  wrote,  with  quick,  heavy  strokes  of  the  pen : 

"DEAR  STUBBS, — The  tone  of  your  letter  surprises  me. 
I  am  not  aware  that  I  owe  explanations  to  you  or  anybody 
else.  Yours  truly, 

"ANTHONY  MUIR. 

"P.  S. — I  regret  to  say  that  since  I  have  moved  into 
Westmorland  I  find  the  distance  between  here  and  Appian 
Way  will  make  it  impossible  for  me  to  continue  my  mem 
bership  of  the  club-table.  A.  M." 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

He  felt  better  after  the  letter  had  been  sent  off,  but 
when  he  went,  an  hour  later,  to  eat  his  luncheon  in  a 
little  restaurant  near  Harvard  Square,  it  seemed  to 
him  as  if  the  whole  university  were  there  to  watch 
him  going  in.  But  he  would  not  be  humiliated  in  his 
own  eyes.  He  carried  himself  loftily,  and  in  the  af 
ternoon  went  to  Sever  to  give  another  lecture.  When 
it  was  over  he  took  occasion  to  stop  Johnny  Charter 
house,  as  the  young  men  were  filing  out,  and  ask  him 
to  come  to  Westmorland  Hall  in  the  evening.  The 
boy  —  a  small,  pale,  big -eyed  lad  of  seventeen — 
flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  but  promised  to  be 
there  at  nine. 

When  Muir  came  out  it  was  time  to  dress  for  his 
meeting  with  Agatha.  He  had  not  seen  her  for  two 
days,  even  though  she  and  Miss  Leggett  were  waiting 
"to  show  him  over"  the  house.  He  was  to  give  his 
advice  on  the  installation  of  the  electric  light  and  cer 
tain  other  changes  to  be  made  before  the  wedding. 
He  shrank  from  doing  it;  he  shrank  from  seeing 
Agatha  at  all ;  he  shrank  from  her  studied  silence  on 
the  subject  of  his  book  as  much  as  he  had  shrunk,  a 
week  or  two  ago,  from  her  speaking  of  it ;  but  it  was  all 
part  of  the  situation  he  had  to  face.  He  could  not 
swerve  by  a  hair's-breadth  from  the  line  of  conduct 
the  most  innocent  man  would  have  followed.  So  he 
dressed  himself  carefully,  making  up  for  his  indiffer 
ence  of  the  morning.  He  knew  that  to  hold  his  own 
he  must  make  use  of  even  the  most  trivial  point  that 
could  tell  in  his  favor. 

At  the  door  he  asked  for  "the  ladies,"  but  when  he 
had  waited  a  few  mintues  in  the  white-and-gold 
drawing-room  Agatha  came  in  alone.  As  she  entered 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

his  heart  smote  him  with  a  quick  pang.  She  was  too 
superb  a  creature  to  be  betrayed,  and  yet  he  must 
betray  her.  It  was  a  new  kind  of  remorse  to  him. 
Hitherto,  in  the  situation  in  which  he  had  been 
placed,  he  had  had  no  pity  but  for  himself;  now,  for 
the  first  time,  he  pitied  her. 

He  stood  at  the  end  of  the  room  farthest  from  the 
door  and  let  her  advance  towards  him.  He  did  so 
not  from  lack  of  courtesy,  but  from  delight  in  the 
picture  she  made  as  she  approached.  In  the  uncon 
scious  ease  of  her  carriage  there  was  something  in 
dependent  of  externals  —  a  dignity  that  came  less 
from  grace  and  beauty  than  from  simplicity  and 
straightforwardness  of  soul.  The  charm  she  exerted 
was  of  the  sort  to  which  outward  trappings  are  of 
little  or  no  importance.  The  large,  black  hat  with 
long,  white  plumes,  the  soft,  white  feathery  thing 
about  her  neck,  the  dress  of  chestnut-colored  velvet, 
were  mere  fashionable  details  to  which  neither  An 
thony  Muir  nor  any  one  else  would  have  paid  atten 
tion  when  she  herself  came  forward  with  a  smile 
upon  her  lips.  She  stopped  at  a  little  distance  from 
him. 

"You're  very  late,"  she  said,  in  mock  reproach. 

"Am  I?     It's  only  a  quarter-past  four." 

"I  said  four.  You  ought  to  have  been  here  in  ad 
vance  of  the  hour  rather  than  after  it.  To  an  ardent 
lover  punctuality  itself  is  late." 

"  I've  just  come  from  one  lecture,"  he  laughed.  "  I 
didn't  know  I  was  going  to  another." 

"I  have  so  many  things  to  do  that  I  don't  know 
where  to  begin,"  she  continued,  when  they  had  seated 
themselves  on  one  of  the  gilded  sofas.  They  sat  side 


The   Steps    of  Honor 

by  side,  but  turning  towards  each  other.  "  You  see, 
Mr.  Muir,  I  am  going  to  be  married." 

"Indeed?     To  whom?" 

"To  a  man  who  is  as  good  as  he  is  handsome  and  as 
clever  as  he  is  good." 

"That  is,  you  think  him  so." 

"Everybody  thinks  him  so." 

"Everybody?" 

"Well,  everybody  worth  taking  into  consideration." 

"Then  there  are  some  who  don't?" 

"Isn't  it  Tennyson  who  says,  'He  makes  no  friend 
who  never  made  a  foe '  ?  The  man  I  'm  going  to  marry 
has  many  friends.  It  is  necessary,  therefore,  that  he 
should  have  enemies." 

She  had  decided  not  to  speak  again  of  the  articles  in 
the  National,  but  she  could  not  resist  this  covert  allu 
sion  to  the  situation. 

"And  these  enemies,"  Muir  continued,  "what  do 
they  say  against  him?" 

"They  pretend  he  isn't  honorable,"  she  said,  boldly. 
"They  go  so  far  as  to  say  he  isn't  even  honest." 

She  looked  frankly  into  his  face,  and,  though  he 
winced  inwardly,  he  controlled  himself  sufficiently  to 
look  back  frankly  into  hers. 

"And  what  do  you  think?"  he  asked. 

"That  is  sufficiently  shown,"  she  answered,  slip 
ping  both  her  hands  into  his,  "by  the  fact  that  I'm 
going  to  marry  him." 

"But  if  other  people  turned  against  him?" 

"I  should  stand  by  him  all  the  more." 

"But  if  even  you  lost  faith  in  him?" 

"I  couldn't  lose  faith  in  him,  because  I  have  his 
word." 

155 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"But  if  to  discredit  his  word  there  were  brought 
proof?" 

"No  proof  would  weigh  with  me  if  his  assertion 
were  on  the  other  side." 

"Then  you  believe  in  him  to  the  uttermost?" 

"To  the  uttermost  and  beyond." 

They  sat  for  a  moment  with  clasped  hands,  looking 
each  other  in  the  eyes.  Then  his  gaze  fell  before  the 
truth  in  hers.  He  let  his  head  sink  for  a  second  on 
her  shoulder. 

"Oh,  Agatha,"  he  murmured,  "I'm  not  worthy  of 
a  wife  like  you." 

To  himself  he  was  saying:  "I'll  make  it  up  to  her. 
I've  got  to  betray  her  trust  this  once,  but  she  shall 
lose  nothing  by  it.  I'll  write  other  books  and  make 
her  proud  of  me.  I'll  atone  for  everything,  so  that 
she  shall  never  know  her  faith  in  me  was  built  upon 
a  lie." 

When  he  lifted  his  head  he  was  smiling.  It  had 
already  become  an  instinct  with  him  to  remember, 
before  everything  else,  to  keep  on  the  mask.  She, 
too,  smiled.  With  his  eyes  upon  her  the  weight  at 
her  heart  seemed  to  lift. 

"  I  shall  never  lose  my  faith  in  you,  Anthony,"  she 
whispered. 

He  hung  his  head  again. 

"Would  you  go  on  loving  me,"  he  asked,  in  a  con 
fused  attempt  to  justify  himself,  "if  in  the  end  you 
found  out  that  I  wasn't  worthy  of  it?" 

"That  couldn't  happen.     I  shall  never  find  it  out." 

They  sat  for  a  few  minutes  thus,  till  the  moral  dis 
comfort  grew  too  great  for  him.  He  moved  restlessly 
in  his  seat  and  released  her  hands. 

156 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"Isn't  Miss  Leggett  waiting  for  us  somewhere?"  he 
asked,  uneasily.  "She  said  something  about  show 
ing  me  the  house." 

He  followed  her  from  the  room  with  the  same  gaze 
of  admiration  with  which  he  had  seen  her  enter. 

"My  God,"  he  groaned,  inwardly,  "what  a  mess 
I'm  making  of  it!  But  when  this  is  over  everything 
else  will  be  true." 

They  came  out  into  the  hall  and  Agatha  went  tow 
ards  the  staircase.  When  she  had  taken  a  few  steps 
up  the  stairs  she  turned  suddenly. 

"There  is  no  truth  in  what  they  say,  is  there,  An 
thony?"  she  faltered. 

"You're  not  beginning  to  doubt  me,  dear?"  he 
questioned  back. 

"No,  Anthony.  I've  never  doubted  you.  But 
give  me  your  word  just  once." 

"I  have  given  it — "  he  began  to  stammer. 

"Implicitly,"  she  explained.  "But  let  me  have  it 
directly.  Tell  me  just  once  that  all  these  resem 
blances  between  your  book  and  the  other  are  the  re 
sult  of  some  strange  chance.  I  know  they  are,  but 
I  want  to  hear  it  from  your  own  lips.  After  that  I 
promise  you  never  to  bring  the  subject  up  again. 
I  shall  never  look  at  another  number  of  that  frightful 
National,  nor  go  back  to  question  the  word  you  give 
me." 

Muir  stood  for  a  second  silently  looking  back  into 
her  eyes.  He  was  quite  conscious  of  his  situation. 
He  knew  that  the  door  of  grace  had  been  opened  to 
him  again.  He  knew  that  all  his  instincts  of  honesty 
were  urging  him  on  the  instant  to  tell  the  truth  and 
go.  Yet  when  he  spoke  it  was  only  to  say: 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"  I  give  you  my  sacred  word  of  honor,  Agatha,  that 
of  the  asserted  resemblances  between  my  book  and 
Christopher  Love's  I  know  no  more  than  you." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  with  a  smile.  He  bowed 
over  it  and  raised  it  to  his  lips.  When  she  turned  to 
continue  her  way  up-stairs  he  followed  her;  but  he 
told  himself  already  that  the  dignified  old  home  she 
was  offering  to  make  his  was  not  worth  the  price  he 
was  paying.  Nothing  was  worth  it,  not  even  herself 
and  her  love. 

Miss  Leggett  met  them  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  and 
they  went  through  the  rooms  together.  Muir  fol 
lowed  from  chamber  to  chamber,  trying  to  give  his 
mind  to  the  practical  details  under  discussion,  but 
he  was  unable  to  do  more  than  utter  a  perfunctory 
yes  or  no  as  the  various  plans  were  laid  before  him. 
As  soon  as  he  could  he  made  a  pretext  for  leaving  and 
hurried  away.  Agatha  protested  and  said  she  had 
meant  to  take  him  with  her  to  Mrs.  Revere's  after 
noon  party,  but  he  insisted  on  going.  She  came  with 
him  to  the  door  for  a  last  word  at  parting,  but  he  did 
not  wait  for  it.  He  was  eager  to  be  in  the  air — any 
where — so  long  as  he  could  be  alone. 

When  he  found  himself  in  the  street  it  was  already 
growing  dark.  There  were  few  people  about,  and  he 
could  slip  along  under  the  withering  trees  without 
being  perceived.  He  followed  one  of  the  long,  elm- 
arched  avenues  that  lead  towards  Boston.  He  had 
no  objective  point,  but  he  knew  vaguely  that  by-and- 
by  he  must  have  something  to  eat.  From  the  cheer 
ful  society  of  the  club-table  and  old  friends  he  was 
shut  out;  he  must,  therefore,  go  where  he  would  be 
unremarked  in  the  crowd. 

158 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

He  walked  slowly,  his  head  erect,  his  face  set  grim 
ly.  For  the  first  time  he  avowed  to  himself  that  his 
own  self-respect  was  gone.  It  was  a  new  phase  in  his 
mental  condition.  Hitherto  he  had  done  his  best  to 
maintain  his  own  sympathy  with  himself,  and  he  had 
been  able  to  excuse  himself  to  his  own  satisfaction. 
He  had  admitted  that  in  borrowing  from  Christopher 
Love  he  had  been  guilty  of  mistake  but  not  of  dis 
honesty.  He  had  accused  himself  of  stupidity,  awk 
wardness,  and  lack  of  presence  of  mind.  He  had 
acknowledged  that  his  position  was  painful  and,  in  a 
certain  sense,  degrading.  He  had  failed  to  keep  up  to 
the  reputation  of  the  Anthony  Muir  whom  he  had  ad 
mired  as  a  veritable  Bayard  of  chivalry  and  honor. 
He  had  always  meant  to  be  above  suspicion  and  be 
yond  reproach.  As  he  said  of  himself,  he  had  not  an 
instinct  "that  did  not  tingle  with  the  pride  of  being 
upright."  And  yet  he  had  gone  wrong.  It  was  al 
most  incomprehensible  to  him  how  he  could  have 
done  it.  A  year  ago  he  would  have  said  that  nothing 
so  impossible  could  ever  happen  to  him  and,  now  that 
it  had  happened,  he  could  not  accept  the  moral  re 
sponsibility  as  his  own. 

"It's  hard  luck,"  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  saying 
to  himself  for  the  last  few  weeks.  He  blamed  luck; 
he  blamed  Paul  Dunster ;  he  even  blamed  Christopher 
Love  for  having  written  a  book  and  thrown  tempta 
tion  in  his  way;  but  he  would  not  blame  himself. 
From  that  necessity  he  had  fled  away  into  any  hiding- 
place  that  the  trees  of  his  Eden  offered  him.  He  had 
had  his  reasons  for  doing  so — reasons  that  were  found 
ed  less  on  conscious  principles  than  on  instinctive 
knowledge  of  his  own  character.  He  knew  himself 

159 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

able  to  fight  with  pluck  against  onslaughts  from  with 
out;  but  he  knew  himself,  too,  to  stand  in  deadly  fear 
of  the  tribunal  that  sat  within.  Ever  since  the  first 
accusations  had  been  made  against  him  he  had  been 
dodging  the  summons  into  that  supreme  court.  He 
had  not  admitted  to  himself  that  he  was  doing  so. 
He  had  purposely  kept  from  analyzing  his  motives 
and  from  confronting  his  moral  situation.  There  had 
been  a  kind  of  Dutch  courage  for  him  in  the  thought 
that  he  had  enemies.  He  could  face  them  when  he 
could  not  face  himself. 

"I  wasn't  meant  to  play  a  game  like  this,"  he 
mused,  bitterly,  as  he  continued  to  walk  towards 
Boston.  Bad  as  things  had  been  hitherto  he  had 
never  been  driven  into  the  outspoken  falsehood  he 
had  employed  against  Agatha  to-day.  The  decep 
tion  he  had  practised  heretofore  had  been  implicit. 
It  had  consisted  in  generalities  or  evasions  or  si 
lences.  If  his  conscience  attempted  afterwards  to 
call  him  to  account,  he  had  been  able  to  slip  away 
from  the  charge.  But  to-day  there  was  no  way  open. 
His  action  had  been  so  direct  and  deliberate  that  he 
had  been  unable  to  escape  his  own  detection.  For 
the  first  time  he  had  been  caught  and  condemned — 
by  himself. 

With  that  talent  for  philosophical  analysis  which 
was  part  of  his  endowment,  he  was  able  to  expose 
his  situation  for  his  own  judgment.  He  could  lay 
bare  his  conduct  and  separate  motive  from  motive. 
He  could  say  how  far  he  had  acted  from  love,  how 
far  from  vanity,  and  how  far  from  moral  cowardice. 
Once  face  to  face  with  himself  his  intelligence  was 
too  keen  to  allow  further  self-deception.  His  theft 

160 


The   Steps    of   Honor 

from  Christopher  Love  he  passed  over  as  a  matter  of 
secondary  importance;  his  thought  centred  wholly 
on  the  position  which  his  denial  of  that  theft  had 
driven  him  to  take  up. 

"I  wasn't  meant  to  play  a  game  like  this,"  he  said 
to  himself  again.  "I  haven't  got  the  requisites  for 
it.  It's  a  part  that  needs  a  man  without  the  moral 
sense,  and  I'm  handicapped  by  the  knowledge  that  I 
have  a  soul.  That's  the  key  to  the  whole  situation. 
I'm  the  typical  man  with  a  soul — the  man  who  doesn't 
dare  carry  through  a  dishonorable  enterprise  to  a 
splendid  and  triumphant  end.  The  world  is  full  of 
men  who  can  do  it,  but  I'm  not  one  of  them.  In  his 
tory  they  become  emperors,  and  in  private  life  mill 
ionaires.  But  I  can't  steal  without  suffering  for  it. 
I  can't  lie  without  being  sent  off  into  a  moral  hell.  I 
suppose  I  could  say  to  my  soul  what  Lady  Macbeth 
says  to  her  husband: 

'What  thou  wouldst  highly  that  wouldst  thou  holily, 
Wouldst  not  play  false  and  yet  wouldst  wrongly  win;' 

and  that,  obviously,  isn't  a  soul  to  tackle  such  a  busi 
ness  as  mine." 

He  came  to  a  standstill  on  one  of  the  bridges  span 
ning  the  Charles.  The  night  had  closed  in  and  all 
the  lights  were  lit.  The  poorer  quarters  of  the  two 
cities  faced  each  other,  and  from  one  to  the  other 
working  men  and  women  were  trudging  home  from 
work.  Tugs  were  puffing  on  the  basin  below,  while 
over  the  bridge  rumbled  long  lines  of  crowded  electric 
cars. 

"It's  a  curious  thing,"  Muir  meditated,  looking 
down  at  the  black  water,  "that  in  this  world  the 
it  161 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

Jacobs  who  have  spiritual  aspirations  should  have  to 
go  through  so  much  more  moral  shuffling  than  the 
Esaus  who  have  none.  Is  it  that  moral  shuffling  is 
better  than  no  power  of  moral  motion  at  all  ?  Or  is  it 
that  the  less  a  man  happens  to  be  lower  than  the 
angels  the  greater  the  splash  he  makes  if  he  comes 
down  ?  Or  is  it  that  if  he  catches  a  glimpse  of  the 
Beatific  Vision  the  more  the  irony  of  life  insists  on 
making  him  unworthy  to  have  seen  it  ?  It  was  when 
Moses  came  down  from  the  mount  that  he  broke  all 
the  tables  of  the  law  together,  and  it  was  after  David 
had  been  crowned  in  Hebron  that  he  fell  in  love  with 
the  wife  of  Uriah  the  Hittite.  Well,"  he  continued, 
moving  on  again,  "that  doesn't  excuse  me.  There 
was  at  least  something  dramatic  in  them  and  their 
penances.  Moses  was  shut  out  from  the  Promised 
Land  and  David  lay  prone  all  night  upon  the  earth 
while  the  child  of  his  adultery  died.  Nothing  of  that 
sort  is  likely  to  happen  to  me.  I  shall  probably  be 
allowed  to  go  on  lying  till  the  storm  passes.  The  best 
I  can  hope  is  that  moral  shuffling  may  bring  me  out 
where  the  road  becomes  smooth  enough  to  walk 
straightforwardly  once  more." 

It  was  not  much  of  a  hope,  but  it  stayed  him  for 
the  moment.  On  the  strength  of  it  he  was  able  to  eat, 
without  much  appetite,  and  to  turn  back  towards 
Cambridge  in  time  for  his  meeting  with  Johnny  Char 
terhouse. 


XIV 


|T  was  two  thousand  dollars,"  Johnny 
Charterhouse  was  saying,  at  about 
ten  o'clock  that  night.  "I  had  the 
chance  to  take  it  and  I  took  it." 

The  boy  spoke  frankly  and  simply, 
his  big,  gray  eyes  looking  straight 
into  Muir's.  Muir  himself  leaned  forward  in  his  chair, 
touching  the  tips  of  his  fingers  together.  The  psy 
chological  problem  presented  by  Johnny  Charter 
house's  case  was  taking  his  mind,  for  a  few  minutes, 
from  his  own  cares. 

"Didn't  you  expect  to  be  found  out?"  Muir  ques 
tioned. 

"Sooner  or  later,"  the  boy  admitted,  with  the  same 
frankness.  "I  calculated  the  possibilities  as  well  as 
I  could.  I  knew  they  might  catch  me  at  once,  but  at 
the  same  time  it  was  money  that  no  one  was  likely  to 
miss  at  first.  I  thought  I  might  even  get  through 
college  before  they  detected  me,  and  I  decided  to  run 
for  that  chance.  Of  course,  I  knew  there  was  risk; 
but  it  was  the  only  thing  I  could  do  if  I  was  to  get  an 
education  at  all.  When  you  told  me  to  come  to-night 
I  knew  the  game  was  up." 

"You've  had  a  pretty  hard  time,  haven't  you?" 
"Yes,  sir." 

163 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"Your  father  died  when  you  were  young,  I  think 
you  said?" 

"When  I  was  a  baby." 

"And  your  mother?" 

"  I  don't  know  when." 

"Who  brought  you  up?" 

"My  uncle  paid  for  my  keep  in  an  orphans'  home. 
When  I  was  too  old  to  stay  there  any  longer  he  gave 
,  me  a  job  in  his  office.  I  studied  for  college  in  odd 
hours  and  at  nights.  I  knew  I'd  have  to  get  an  edu 
cation  if  I  was  ever  to  do  anything  in  life." 

"How  did  you  come  to  have  so  much  money  in 
your  possession?" 

"It  was  simple  enough.  I'd  had  it  for  some  time 
before  I  passed  my  finals.  Of  course  I  knew  it  wasn't 
much  use  passing  them  if  I  couldn't  go  on  and  enter 
college.  What  I  counted  on  chiefly  was  that  my  aunt 
might  leave  me  something  when  she  died.  She'd 
come  back  from  Europe  sick,  and  we  knew  she 
couldn't  get  better.  She  used  to  go  to  Europe  every 
year  to  buy  dresses  and  jewelry  for  herself  and  the 
girls.  Well,  she  died,  but  she  didn't  leave  me  any 
thing.  It  was  some  time  after  the  funeral  that  my 
uncle  sent  me  to  New  York  on  a  mysterious  errand. 
I  was  to  take  a  packet  to  the  Collector  of  Customs 
there,  deliver  it  into  his  own  hands,  and  give  no 
name.  If  my  uncle  hadn't  insisted  so  strongly  on 
the  secrecy  of  the  affair  I  shouldn't  have  been  so  sure 
of  what  was  up.  But  little  by  little  I  figured  it  out, 
with  the  help  of  hints  I  had  heard  let  drop  at  the  time 
of  my  aunt's  death." 

"You  mean  that  it  was  conscience-money?" 

"Yes.  My  aunt  had  died  a  very  religious  death. 
164 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

Towards  the  last  she'd  got  worked  up  over  having 
cheated  the  Government  the  last  few  times  she'd 
come  from  Europe.  She  reckoned  it  up  at  about 
three  thousand  dollars,  I 'believe;  but  before  the  end 
came  Uncle  John  had  beaten  her  down  to  two.  She 
made  him  promise  to  pay  it  after  she  died ;  and  when 
he  gave  me  the  packet  I  had  a  pretty  good  idea  as  to 
what  it  contained.  I  opened  it  in  New  York.  The 
money  was  in  notes.  That  decided  me.  If  it  had 
been  a  check  I  couldn't  have  done  anything  with  it." 

"Of  course  not,"  Muir  murmured. 

"The  only  writing  was  in  my  aunt's  own  hand. 
It  was  just,  'Restitution  to  the  Government  of  tlie 
United  States  for  defrauding  Customs.'  Well,"  the 
boy  continued,  monotonously,  "I  thought  it  over 
that  night  and  I  decided  that  the  Government  had 
less  need  of  the  money  than  I  had.  I  knew  by  the 
nature  of  the  errand  that  Uncle  John  wouldn't  make 
any  immediate  inquiries,  and  I  thought  he  might 
never  make  any  at  all.  I  didn't  mean  to  steal  the 
money.  I  meant  only  to  get  my  education  with  it. 
Then  I  intended  to  pay  it  back  to  the  United  States 
Government,  little  by  little,  and  secretly,  in  Uncle 
John's  own  way.  It  didn't  seem  to  me  to  be  stealing 
when  I  did  it." 

"And  now?"  Muir  queried. 

"I've  put  in  a  pretty  mean  year,"  the  lad  said, 
simply.  "I've  had  two  minds  about  coming  back  to 
college  at  all.  I've  thought  some  of  paying  over  the 
money  I  have  left — that's  about  fifteen  hundred — to 
the  Collector  of  Customs,  and  making  up  the  rest  as 
soon  as  I  could.  I've  thought  some,  too,  of  clearing 
out  to  Europe  with  it  all  and  making  a  fresh  start. 

165 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

But  I've  come  back.  It  seemed  to  me,  in  the  end, 
that  I  ought  to  get  an  education  if  I  could." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  which  Muir  was  the 
first  to  break. 

"You've  told  me  this  very  frankly,  Charterhouse," 
he  said.  "You  haven't  tried  to  hedge  or  to  keep  any 
thing  back.  May  I  ask  why?" 

"  Because  I  saw  you  knew.  When  you  began  ask 
ing  me  about  myself  I  could  tell  that  some  one  had 
been  giving  you  points.  Besides,  I  never  meant  to 
deny  the  thing  if  I  was  taxed  with  it.  I've  done  a 
good  deal  of  lying  about  it  first  and  last  and  I'm 
rather  sick  of  it." 

"You  look  upon  yourself  as  an  honest  boy  by 
nature?" 

"I'd  rather  be  honest  than  not,"  the  lad  said,  with 
a  wan 'smile. 

"But  having  made  a  mistake  and  been  dishonest, 
what  do  you  propose  to  do?" 

"I  don't  suppose  that  rests  with  me.  My  uncle  or 
the  United  States  Government  will  have  the  first  say 
in  that." 

"I  think,"  said  Muir,  "I  can  assure  you  that  no 
action  will  be  taken  against  you.  In  that  case  would 
you  continue  to  use  the  money  and  remain  at  Har 
vard?" 

"  I'd  like  to  do  what  was  easiest,"  the  boy  answered, 
frankly.  "I  know  what  I  ought  to  do.  I  ought  to 
take  the  rest  of  the  money  back  to  Uncle  John  and 
confess  the  whole  job.  But  I'd  like  to  get  out  of  it 
by  a  simpler  way  than  that." 

"What  simpler  way?" 

"  I  don't  know  yet.  I'd  have  to  cast  about  and  see." 
166 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"When  you've  found  it,  will  you  come  and  tell  me 
what  it  is?" 

The  boy  promised,  and  soon  rose  to  go  away.  He 
was  so  small  and  pale  and  prematurely  careworn  that 
Muir  felt  the  pity  of  the  strong  and  well-developed 
for  the  frail,  under-sized  thing  that  has  never  had  a 
chance  to  grow. 

"  Come  soon,"  he  said,  as  he  pressed  the  lad's  hand; 
"you'll  find  me  almost  any  evening  about  nine." 

Left  alone,  Muir  found  his  own  anxieties  return  with 
double  force.  They  wove  themselves  in  with  the  con 
fessions  of  Johnny  Charterhouse  and  gave  him  a 
troubled  night.  He  dreamed  of  crime  and  disgrace, 
and  if  he  woke  it  was  to  think  of  his  situation  as  even 
more  frightful  than  it  was.  As  he  meditated  in  the 
darkness  it  seemed  to  him  that  daylight  would  bring 
one  only  course  with  it — to  confess  and  go. 

When  he  got  up  his  ideas  were  more  sober.  The 
day  was  before  him  with  its  round  of  duties,  and  the 
natural  thing  was  to  do  them.  He  gave  his  lectures, 
and  in  the  afternoon  spent  a  half -hour  with  Agatha. 
He  made  pressure  of  work  once  more  a  pretext  for 
leaving  her,  and  hardened  himself  against  her  look  of 
gentle  reproach.  She  talked  gayly  of  the  future,  but 
it  seemed  to  him  that  her  brightness  was  a  little 
forced.  He  tried  to  respond  with  his  usual  frank 
ness,  but  he  suspected  that  in  his  air  the  lack  of  spon 
taneity  was  as  visible  as  in  hers. 

In  the  evening  Johnny  Charterhouse  came  again. 
When  his  timid  knock  sounded  on  the  door  Muir's 
heart  gave  a  bound  of  welcome.  He  was  conscious 
already  of  a  curious  companionship  of  soul  with  this 
poor  waif  of  fortune. 

167 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"Well?"  Muir  queried,  when  they  had  seated  them 
selves  after  the  first  commonplace  words  of  greeting. 

"I've  been  thinking,"  Charterhouse  said,  with  the 
wistful  air  of  earnestness  that  Muir  found  pathetic — 
"I've  been  thinking  that  if  they  don't  do  anything 
to  me  I  might  as  well  keep  the  money  and  get  my 
education." 

Muir  was  surprised  at  this  moral  retrogression,  but 
he  did  not  say  so. 

"Could  you  keep  it,"  he  asked,  "and  with  it  keep 
your  own  self-respect  ?" 

"  If  I  could  get  other  people's  respect  I  might  man 
age  to  do  without  my  own." 

"Do  you  think  we  can  ever  do  that,  Johnny? 
When  our  own  self-respect  is  gone,  do  you  think  we 
'can  ever  win  the  esteem  of  others?" 

"I  mean,"  the  boy  explained,  "that  I  could  get 
along  without  self-respect  for  a  while.  Then  when 
I'd  got  my  education  and  worked  and  saved  the 
money  and  paid  it  back  I  could  begin  respecting  my 
self  again." 

"Can  one  start  wrong  and  go  right?" 

"I  think  so." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  like  expecting  an  arrow  that  was 
badly  aimed  to  correct  itself  while  on  its  flight  tow 
ards  the  mark?" 

"You  couldn't  expect  that  of  an  arrow,  but  you 
might  expect  it  of  a  man." 

"This  isn't  a  question  of  theory,"  Muir  said,  shift 
ing  his  ground,  "so  much  as  of  experience.  The  world 
is  full  of  ruined  men  who've  thought  they  could  do 
what  they  couldn't  do  and  what  they'd  better  not 
have  tried." 

•68 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"  But  I  should  be  ruined  before  trying  if  I  confessed 
and  gave  the  money  back." 

"You'd  be  ruined  as  far  as  Harvard  and  your  edu 
cation  are  concerned;  but  Harvard  isn't  everything 
and  education  isn't  everything.  Greater  than  either 
of  them  is  the  moral  nature  of  the  stupidest  little 
freshman  who  ever  crossed  the  Charles  to  Cambridge. 
For  a  man  to  give  his  self-respect  for  the  sake  of  keep 
ing  his  place  in  Harvard  or  anywhere  else  in  the 
world  is  to  sell  his  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage." 

"I  know  I  should  feel  pretty  mean,"  the  boy  ad 
mitted.  "I've  felt  mean  all  along.  But  I  figured  it 
out  that  it  would  be  like  a  disease  that  you  could 
hide — bad  enough,  but  not  so  bad  as  if  it  were  where 
every  one  could  see  it.  I  guess  I  could  bear  the  one 
if  it  didn't  turn  into  the  other." 

"It  would  turn  into  the  other.  There's  no  hidden 
disease  that  doesn't  show  itself  outwardly  before  long. 
When  a  man  is  consciously  without  self-respect  peo 
ple  soon  see,  no  matter  what  he  does  or  says,  that  his 
moral  life  is  rotten.  It's  hard  enough,  Johnny,  for 
the  man  who  begins  right  and  goes  wrong  in  spite  of 
himself ;  but  deliberately  to  start  wrong  is  to  strangle 
every  power  within  you  before  you've  begun  your 
work.  People  do  that  sometimes.  They  lay  a  foun 
dation  that  in  one  way  or  another  isn't  true.  They 
try  to  build  up  fortune  or  profession  or  marriage  upon 
it;  but  sooner  or  later  their  work  is  bound  to  come 
down  like  a  house  of  cards.  If  I  were  you,  Johnny — 
but  no,  I  won't  make  any  suggestions.  You'll  do  the 
thing  better  by  working  it  out  for  yourself." 

There  was  a  long  silence  during  which  Muir  watched 
the  boy.  His  face  was  expressionless,  except  for  its 

169 


The    Steps    of   Honor 


wan  sincerity,  and  the  big,  gray  eyes  wandered  about 
the  room  as  if  without  taking  heed  of  the  objects  with 
in  range. 

"If  I  did  give  the  money  back,"  Charterhouse  said, 
at  last,  "  I  shouldn't  be  turned  out  into  the  cold.  I'd 
have  a  home  to  go  to.  I've  fixed  that  up  already. 
Mrs.  Brooks — that's  a  friend  of  mine — says  she'd 
room  and  board  me  till  I  got  work." 

"Ah!     Does  she  know  all  the — the  details?" 

"  I  went  out  to  Roxbury  and  told  her  this  afternoon. 
I  figured  it  out  that  I  ought  to  do  it.  I've  been  inti 
mate  at  her  house  ever  since  I  came  to  Harvard,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  I  ought  to  tell  her  there  was 
something  wrong  about  me." 

"May  I  ask  what  she  said?" 

"Nothing  much.  She  cried  a  little,  and  said  if  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  do  what  was  right  I  needn't  be 
without  a  home." 

"Is  she  a  person  of  means?" 

"She's  a  dressmaker,  and  takes  boarders — that  is, 
she  takes  them  when  she  can  get  them.  Just  now  she 
hasn't  any.  Her  daughter  is  studying  to  be  a  school 
teacher,  and  I've  helped  her  some  with  her  work." 

"That  would  certainly  make  it  easier  for  you, 
Johnny — I  mean  that  you've  got  a  place  to  go  to,  if 
it  was  only  for  a  week  or  two." 

"Well,  I'd  feel  pretty  mean,"  the  lad  remarked, 
"but  I  feel  mean  anyhow.  I  don't  see  but  what  I've 
got  to  feel  mean  whichever  way  I  turn." 

"The  eating  of  humble-pie  can't  be  other  than 
mean  diet,"  Muir  said,  dryly.  "The  only  possible 
comfort  for  those  of  us  who've  got  to  do  it  lies  in 
swallowing  the  dose  manfully." 

170 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"Well,  I'll  think  it  over,"  the  boy  said,  rising  and 
shyly  holding  out  his  hand.  "I'm  much  obliged  to 
you,  sir,  for  taking  so  much  interest.  I  expect  you 
look  down  on  me  a  good  deal." 

"No,  Johnny,  no!"  Muir  assured  him.  "Why 
should  I  look  down  on  you?  You're  feeling  your  way 
towards  the  right,  and  that's  all  the  best  of  us  can 
do." 

When  the  boy  had  gone  Muir  threw  himself  back 
into  his  reading-chair  and  laughed  harshly. 

"Good  Lord!  who  am  I  to  look  down  on  the  lad?" 
he  groaned,  almost  aloud.  "And  yet  I  can  perform 
moral  monkey  tricks  that  ought  to  make  me  a  wonder 
among  mankind.  I  can  see  clearly  to  cast  the  mote 
out  of  my  brother's  eye  even  while  the  beam  is  in  my 
own.  Not  all  the  saints  in  hagiology  could  do  as 
much  as  that,  and  yet,  like  Johnny  Charterhouse,  I 
feel  pretty  mean." 

In  the  few  days  that  followed,  Muir  began  to  per 
ceive  that  he  was  being  left  a  good  deal  alone.  He 
had  not  noticed  it  at  first,  but,  now  that  he  began  to 
think  of  it,  he  could  see  that  it  was  long  since  there 
had  been  any  one  "looking  in "  to  see  him,  it  was  long 
since  he  had  had  an  invitation,  it  was  long  since  he 
had  even  been  greeted  in  the  usual  friendly  fashion  in 
the  Yard  or  the  street.  It  was  as  if  his  acquaintances 
were  making  a  ring  around  him  and  looking  on.  He 
had  the  chilly  feeling  of  one  who  is  being  slowly  forced 
outside  the  pale  of  fellowship.  "Very  well,  I  can 
stand  it  if  they  can,"  he  said,  grimly,  to  himself;  but 
the  sense  of  solitude  gave  him  greater  joy  in  Agatha's 
steady,  smiling  loyalty.  He  conquered  his  uneasi 
ness  in  her  presence  and  made  no  more  pretexts  for 

171 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

fleeing  from  her.  He  dined  two  or  three  times  in  suc 
cession  with  her  and  Miss  Leggett,  and  the  evenings 
passed  happily.  Then  he  came  back  to  sleepless 
nights.  Those  were  his  worst  times.  He  could  get 
through  the  day  somehow,  especially  with  Agatha  as 
a  refuge ;  but  the  long  hours  of  darkness  were  appall 
ing.  Wild  schemes  of  saving  himself  passed  through 
his  mind  then,  only  to  be  dismissed  with  the  daylight. 
He  slipped  into  a  way  of  repeating  to  himself  Johnny 
Charterhouse's  formula:  "  I  feel  pretty  mean.  I  shall 
go  on  feeling  mean.  And  if,"  he  would  add,  "if  I 
betray  the  trust  of  the  woman  I  love  I  shall  feel  still 
meaner." 

For  three  days  Johnny  Charterhouse  was  absent 
from  Muir's  lectures.  Muir  watched  in  vain  for  the 
pallid  face  in  the  upper  tiers  of  the  amphitheatre  and 
wondered  what  was  happening.  On  the  fourth  day 
the  boy  appeared.  After  the  lecture  he  lingered  till 
the  other  students  had  gone.  Then  he  came  timidly 
to  the  desk  where  Muir  was  busy  with  his  notes. 

"  I've  done  it,  sir,"  he  said,  a  faint  color  stealing  to 
his  cheeks.  "I've  been  to  Philadelphia  and  seen  my 
uncle." 

"Ah!     I  hope  he  wasn't  hard  on  you?" 

"He  might  have  been  harder,  but  he  made  me  feel 
pretty  mean  for  all  that.  He  just  took  the  money 
and  told  me  to  get  out  where  he'd  never  hear  of  me 
again." 

"And  now?" 

"Now  I'm  at  Mrs.  Brooks's.  I've  left  college  and 
I'm  looking  for  a  job.  This  will  be  the  last  lect 
ure  I'll  attend.  I  expect  I'll  drop  into  something 
before  long,  but  as  I  haven't  been  able  to  get  an  edu- 

172 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

cation  it  won't  amount  to  very  much.  I  thought  I'd 
like  to  come  to-day  and  thank  you,  sir,  and  say  good 
bye." 

Muir  looked  at  the  boy  for  some  seconds  without 
speaking. 

"You'll  go  on  with  your  studies,  Johnny?"  he  said, 
at  last. 

"I  thought  I  might  work  some  at  nights,  sir,  if  I 
have  my  evenings  to  myself." 

"And  I've  no  doubt  I  could  help  you,"  Muir  ob 
served.  "I  can't  give  you  a  degree,  but  we  might 
make  up  something  of  what  you'll  lose  in  leaving  Har 
vard." 

Charterhouse  began  to  stammer  a  response  when 
Muir  went  on  again. 

"Mrs.  Brooks's  is  in  Roxbury,  I  think  you  said?" 

"Yes,  sir.     Number  24  Greenland  Park." 

"Ah!  I'll  just  put  that  down.  Number  24  Green 
land  Park.  Is  it  an  apartment -house  or  a  house  by 
itself?" 

"It's  a  small  house  by  itself — white  with  green 
shutters.  There's  a  little  garden  to  it.  It's  pretty 
far  out,  but  the  cars  are  near." 

"Is  it,"  Muir  questioned,  absently,  as  though  he 
were  thinking  of  something  else — "  is  it — clean  ?"  He 
brought  out  the  words  with  difficulty. 

"Oh  yes,  sir.  Everything  is  spick  and  span.  Mrs. 
Brooks  is  a  very  lady-like  woman,  and  so  is  Lucy." 

"That's  the  daughter  who  is  studying  to  be  a  school 
teacher,  I  suppose?  They  take  other  boarders,  I  be 
lieve  you  said?" 

"When  they  can  get  them.  They  haven't  much  of 
anybody  now — except  me." 

173 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"Thank  you,  Johnny,"  Muir  said,  holding  out  his 
hand.  "I  happen  to  know  some  one  who  may — who 
may — want  such  a  place  as  that." 

The  boy  went  away,  but  Muir  sat  still  at  his  desk. 
He  brushed  the  notes  aside  and  let  his  head  sink  be 
tween  his  hands.  When  he  looked  up  his  face  was 
set  with  the  grim  expression  it  wore  in  moments  of 
determination.  "What  Johnny  Charterhouse  can  do 
surely  I  can  do,"  he  said.  He  rose,  gathered  his  books 
and  papers  together,  and  took  his  hat.  Then,  for  a 
minute,  he  looked  around  the  familiar  amphitheatre. 

"Good-bye,  old  hall,"  he  murmured,  under  his 
breath.  "  You  sha 'n't  see  me  here  again.  Anthony 
Muir  is  going  under." 

As  he  passed  out  he  could  almost  fancy  that  the 
empty  benches  tried  to  make  him  speechless  tokens 
of  farewell. 

In  his  room  in  Westmorland,  Muir  worked  busily 
all  that  night  writing  letters,  destroying  papers,  and 
making  other  preparations,  as  of  a  man  going  on  a  long 
journey.  He  had  no  need  of  sleep,  but  he  was  not 
excited.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  calm  and  his  mind 
clear.  When  morning  came  he  was  haggard  but  not 
fatigued.  He  was  eager  to  go  on  and  finish  what  he 
had  set  himself  to  do.  Having  refreshed  himself  with 
a  bath  he  went  out  for  breakfast.  Before  he  returned 
he  sent  word  that  he  would  give  no  lectures  that  day. 
Throughout  the  morning  he  worked  with  the  same 
unremitting  ardor  as  through  the  night.  It  was  early 
afternoon  before  he  had  done  everything  to  his  satis 
faction.  At  three  he  dressed  himself  with  his  usual 
care,  preparatory  to  going  out.  Before  doing  so  he 
unlocked  a  desk  and  drew  therefrom  a  volume  in  old, 

174 


The    Steps   of  Honor 

dull  brown.  He  opened  it  at  the  title-page  and  read, 
A  Treatise  on  the  Human  Conscience:  Its  Relation  to 
Revealed  Religion;  and  Its  Influence  on  the  Social  Life 
of  Men,  by  Christopher  Love.  On  the  fly-leaf  was 
written,  "Andrew  Muir,  with  the  Author's  esteemed 
Regards.  Edinburgh,  1831."  When  he  went  out  he 
had  the  book  and  three  or  four  letters  in  his  hand. 
At  Agatha's  door  he  was  told  that  Miss  Royal  had 
gone  with  her  cousin  to  call  on  Mr.  Wollaston. 

"So  much  the  better.     I  may  find  her  there,"  Muir 
said  to  himself,  and  set  out  to  cross  the  Common. 


XV 

JT  isn't  as  if  there  was  any  hurry," 
Mrs.  Wollaston  reasoned;  "and  any 
body  must  see  that  it's  wiser  to  take 
the  time  for  reflection  before  mar 
riage  rather  than  after  it." 

"But  I  have  reflected,  dear  Mrs. 
Wollaston,"  Agatha  argued.  "I  couldn't  have  my 
mind  more  firmly  made  up  if  I  waited  another  year." 
"That's  nonsense,  my  dear,"  came  from  Cousin 
Abby  Leggett.  "A  woman's  mind  is  like  an  actress's 
complexion.  It's  made  up  one  way  to-day  and  an 
other  way  to-morrow,  according  to  the  part  she  has  to 
play." 

"I'm  not  playing  a  part,"  Agatha  declared,  with  a 
tremble  of  indignation  in  her  tone.  "I'm  doing  only 
what  I  know  to  be  my  duty." 

She  began  to  feel  that  in  coming  to  see  Mr.  Wollas 
ton  this  afternoon  she  had  been  led  into  an  ambush. 
She  had  seen  no  reason  for  making  the  call;  it  was 
Cousin  Abby  who  had  invented  some  vague  pretext 
for  it  and  urged  her  to  come.  On  arriving  they  had 
found  not  only  the  professor  but  Mrs.  Wollaston,  who 
should  have  been  at  her  Bee,  and  Persis,  who  rarely 
stayed  home  in  the  early  part  of  the  afternoon. 
From  the  directness  of  the  attack  on  her  Agatha  was 
sure  the  combination  of  forces  had  been  prearranged. 

176 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

She  sat  on  the  sofa  beside  Persis,  but  when  she  began 
to  suspect  a  trap  she  drew  coldly  away  from  the  touch 
of  the  girl's  hand.  The  professor  was  in  his  arm 
chair  by  the  fire,  though  up  to  the  present  he  had  said 
little.  Mrs.  Wollaston  herself  led  the  movement  in 
front,  with  Cousin  Abby  Leggett  to  cover  her  retreat 
when  Agatha's  replies  forced  her  momentarily  to 
retire. 

"Some  people  might  think,"  Miss  Leggett  an 
swered  now,  "that  a  large  part  of  a  girl's  duty  lay  in 
listening  to  the  advice  of  her  elders." 

"I'm  not  a  child — "  Agatha  began,  but  the  pro 
fessor  interrupted  her. 

"  If  you  were,"  he  said,  "we  could  find  more  excuse 
for  your  rashness." 

"And  I'm  not  rash,"  Agatha  returned,  quickly, 
flashing  an  indignant  look  around  on  them  all.  "I 
know  what  I'm  doing  because  I  know  the  man  I'm 
going  to  marry." 

"Do  you?"  Miss  Leggett  asked,  scornfully.  "Then 
you're  wiser  than  the  child  that  knows  its  own 
father." 

"No  woman  ever  knows  the  man  she's  going  to 
marry,"  the  professor  asserted. 

"When  she's  lived  with  him  forty  years,  as  I've 
lived  with  Mr.  Wollaston — " 

"Then,"  said  the  professor,  finishing  his  wife's  sen 
tence  in  his  own  way,  "she's  ready  to  confess  that 
his  nature  is  a  riddle  to  which  she  never  had  the 
clew.  The  real  Anthony  Muir,"  he  continued,  ad 
dressing  Agatha  directly,  "can't  be  to  you  other  than 
as  a  book  written  in  an  unknown  tongue." 

"You're  wrong,  Mr.  Wollaston,"  Agatha  insisted. 
"  177 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"Believe  me,  you're  very  wrong.  There's  nothing 
about  him  that  I  don't  know.  He's  above  me,  I  admit. 
He  has  a  greatness  of  mind  that  I  can  only  admire 
without  sharing,  but  I  know  him!" 

"Then,"  said  the  professor,  thrusting  out  his  under- 
lip,  "since  you  know  him  so  well  can  you  tell  us  to 
what  extent  he  is  indebted  for  his  book  to  that  of 
Christopher  Love?" 

"To  no  extent." 

"Are  you  sure  of  it?"  Mrs.  Wollaston  queried,  in  a 
pleading  tone. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  the  girl  replied. 

"Then,"  the  old  man  went  on,  "in  what  way  do 
you  explain  the  extraordinary  coincidences  in 
thought,  language,  and  construction  between  the  two 
works?" 

"I  don't  explain  them.  I  have  no  need  to  ex 
plain  them." 

"Come,  now,  Agatha,"  he  persisted,  "you're  a  girl 
with  sense.  You  can't  deny  that  you  have  some  cu 
riosity  in  the  matter." 

"And  you  can't  deny,"  said  Miss  Leggett,  "that 
when  the  articles  first  began  to  appear  you  were  very 
anxious." 

"  I  was  never  anxious  in  the  way  you  mean,  Cousin 
Abby.  I  was  never  anxious  in  the  sense  of  doubting 
him  or  questioning  the  absolute  rectitude  of  what  he 
did.  I  was  only  anxious  lest  he  should  be  misunder 
stood  by  his  friends  and  the  public." 

"And  how  do  you  feel  on  that  point  now?"  the  old 
man  asked. 

"I  feel  pain  that  those  who  should  have  been  his 
friends  have  not  had  the  courage  to  be  loyal.  FOF 

178 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

myself,  my  confidence  in  him  is  only  the  more  un 
shaken." 

"You  can't  think,  dear,"  Mrs.  Wollaston  said, 
gently,  "that  we  would  wilfully  misrepresent  Mr. 
Muir,  or  think  ill  of  him  without  reason.  When  the 
newspapers  all  over  the  country  have  been  taking  the 
matter  up — when  it's  the  topic  of  conversation  wher 
ever  people  take  an  interest  in  either  literature  or 
social  work — you  can't  expect  us  not  to  feel  it  very 
deeply." 

"But  at  least  he  might  have  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt,"  Agatha  claimed.  "You  will  admit  yourself 
that  that  is  no  more  than  justice." 

"Certainly,  my  dear,"  the  professor  agreed,  quick 
ly.  "Since  there  is  a  doubt,  by  all  means  let  him 
profit  by  it.  But  you  should  profit  by  it,  too.  As 
long  as  the  doubt  exists  you  should  remember  that  it 
is  a  doubt  and — " 

"Oh,  but  there  is  none  for  me,"  she  cried,  hotly. 
"Whatever  there  may  be  for  other  people,  for  me 
there  is  only  the  fact  that  his  honor  is  beyond  all 
shadow  of  suspicion." 

"  But  the  other  people  you  treat  so  scornfully  have 
their  rights,"  Cousin  Abby  observed.  "We  who  are 
your  kith  and  kin — we  who've  watched  over  you  and 
brought  you  up  when  you  were  left  alone  in  the  world 
— have  a  certain  claim  to  be  considered.  I  don't 
speak  of  myself,  but  Cousin  Hector  and  Cousin  Fanny 
couldn't  have  loved  you  better  if  you  had  been  their 
own  child.  And  now,  for  the  sake  of  a  perfect 
stranger — ' ' 

"  Oh,  I  hope  nobody  thinks  me  ungrateful,"  Agatha 
cried,  looking  from  one  to  another,  almost  with  tears. 

179 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"You've  all  been  so  good  to  me.  I  feel  it  more  than 
I  could  <rver  put  into  words,  and  you  must  know — you 
must  know  from  the  way  we've  all  lived  together — 
that  your  affection  hasn't  been  wasted  on  me.  But 
when  a  woman  loves  a  man — I  will  say  it — I'll  speak 
my  whole  heart  out  plainly — when  a  woman  loves  a 
man  as  I  love  Anthony — when  she  has  submitted  her 
self  to  him  and  taken  him  as  her  guide — when  she 
looks  itp  to  him  and  honors  him  and  almost  adores 
him—" 

"Tut,  tut,"  the  professor  muttered,  to  himself. 

"My  dear,  do  you  think  it's  quite  delicate — "  Mrs. 
Wolls>«ton  began. 

"I  will  say  it,"  Agatha  interrupted,  passionately, 
her  hands  clasped  tightly  and  her  cheeks  flushed.  "  I 
repeat  it — when  she  almost  adores  him — then  there 
can  be  no  question  of  whether  or  not  he's  a  stranger. 
He's  everything  to  her,  and  the  more  other  people 
fail  the  more  she  wants  to  be  everything  to  him." 

"I  admit  all  that,"  the  professor  said,  in  a  tone  of 
calm  discussion.  "It's  very  natural  at  a  certain  time 
of  life,  when  the  nature  is  still  capable  of  ardent, 
though  perhaps  somewhat  illogical,  impulses.  Just 
let  me  finish,  my  dear,"  he  continued,  as  Agatha  tried 
to  speak.  "But  please  note  that  we're  not  asking 
you  to  give  up  Muir  nor  to  break  your  engagement 
nor  to  desert  him  in  his  hour  of  trial — " 

"That  I  should  never  do." 

"No,  of  course  you  wouldn't.  All  we're  begging 
of  you  is  to  put  off  your  wedding  till  the  whole  thing 
is  sifted  out  and  we're  sure  that  Muir's  all  right." 

"Oh,  Agatha,"  Persis  whispered,  creeping  nearer, 
"do  listen  to  them  and  put  it  off!  It  can't  do  you 

180 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

any  harm,  and  in  the  end  you'll  be  a  great  deal  hap 
pier." 

"Our  wedding-day,"  said  Agatha,  firmly,  "has 
been  fixed  for  the  4th  of  December.  Every  one 
knows  it.  If  I  were  to  put  it  off  now  it  would  look  as 
if  I  doubted  him.  You  ask  me  to  wait  till  his  repu 
tation  is  cleared  when  I  know  there  has  never  been  a 
stain  upon  it.  I  can't  afford  to  put  my  marriage  off. 
I  can't  afford  to  let  any  one  suppose  that  I  question 
the  word  he  has  given  me.  Don't  think  that  I  want 
to  go  against  you,  Mr.  Wollaston,  or  you,  Mrs.  Wollas- 
ton,  or  you,  Cousin  Abby;  but  I  can't  do  anything 
that  would  make  other  people  think  that  my  faith  in 
him  isn't  absolute." 

"We  don't  ask  you  to,  dear,"  Mrs.  Wollaston  said, 
tremblingly;  but  before  she  could  proceed  the  door 
was  thrown  open  and  Anthony  Muir  stood  on  the 
threshold. 

The  effect  on  all  five  was  electrical.  For  an  in 
stant  no  one  moved  or  said  a  word  of  greeting.  Muir 
entered  with  his  habitual  ease,  but  when  he  came  into 
the  light  they  could  see  that  he  was  pale  and  haggard. 
Mrs.  Wollaston  was  the  first  to  recover  her  presence 
of  mind.  She  rose,  tripped  forward,  and  held  out  her 
hand. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Muir?"  she  said,  in  the  easiest 
tone  she  could  command  at  the  moment.  "We  were 
just  speaking  of  you." 

Muir  bowed  and  skilfully  avoided  taking  her  hand. 

"Indeed?"  he  returned,  gravely.  "I'm  afraid  it 
must  have  been  a  painful  topic." 

"Well,  it  was,"  the  professor  agreed,  bluntly. 

"I  can  understand  that,"  Muir  continued,  "and 
181 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

I'm  afraid  I've  come  to  make  it  more  painful  still.  If 
you'll  allow  me  I'll  sit  here,"  he  added,  turning  tow 
ards  Mrs.  Wollaston. 

He  took  a  chair  near  the  door.  The  lady  returned 
to  her  seat,  exchanging  significant  glances  with  Cousin 
Abby  Leggett  as  she  passed.  Agatha's  eyes  were 
riveted  on  Muir.  For  the  first  minute  he  had  ignored 
her  presence,  but  as  he  sat  down  almost  opposite  her 
he  looked  at  her  squarely.  He  sat  erect,  holding  the 
letters  and  the  old  brown  volume  in  his  hand. 

"For  what  I  have  to  say,  I'm  afraid  I  can't  prepare 
any  one  who  has  been  good  enough  to  trust  me."  He 
spoke  quietly,  but  to  his  own  ears  his  voice  sounded 
strained  and  harsh  in  the  expectant  stillness  of  the 
room.  "I  had  better,  therefore,  go  to  the  point  at 
once." 

"Anthony,  you're  not  well,"  Agatha  broke  in,  des 
perately. 

"I'm  very  well,  Agatha,"  he  returned,  in  the  same 
self -controlled  manner.  "For  what  I  have  to  con 
fess  I  can't  plead  any  weakness  of  either  mind  or 
body." 

"I  think  I'd  better  go  away,"  Miss  Leggett  said, 
half  rising. 

"And  I'll  go  with  you,"  Persis  cried,  her  voice 
catching  in  a  kind  of  sob. 

"  No,  please  stay,"  Muir  begged.  "  I'd  rather  you'd 
both  stay.  There's  nothing  private  in  what  I'm  go 
ing  to  tell.  I'm  speaking  out  before  the  world.  This 
letter  here,"  he  went  on,  holding  up  one  of  the  enve 
lopes,  "is  to  the  National;  this  one  is  to  the  president 
of  Harvard;  this  one  is  to  Professor  Campbell  Love, 
of  Detroit;  this  one  is  to  my  publishers.  This  book  is 

182 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

Christopher  Love's  Treatise  on  the  Human  Conscience. 
It  was  a  presentation  copy  to  my  grandfather.  I  wish 
to  say  that  from  it  I  took  the  scheme,  a  large  part  of 
the  material,  and  some  of  the  actual  writing  of  my 
own  book,  Society  and  Conscience." 

"But,  Anthony — "  Agatha  cried,  as  if  in  protest 
against  his  words. 

"I  told  you,"  he  continued,  addressing  her  directly, 
"that  I  knew  nothing  of  the  man,  or  of  anything  he 
had  written.  In  saying  that  I  lied." 

"Anthony,  you're  not  well,"  she  cried  again. 
"  Don't  say  such  things.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wollaston  will 
misunderstand  you." 

"  They  won't  misunderstand  me,"  he  answered. 
"They've  guessed  already  what  my  state  of  mind  is. 
I've  lied  directly  to  you,  indirectly  to  them,  and  by 
implication  to  the  public,  till  I've  created  my  own 
chastisement.  I  think  I  can  truthfully  say,  like  Cain, 
that  my  punishment  —  the  punishment,  mind  you, 
that  my  own  soul  inflicts  upon  itself — is  greater  than 
I  can  bear.  It  is  certainly  greater  than  my  ambition, 
and  that  was  great  enough;  it's  even  greater  than  my 
love  for  you,  Agatha,  and  that  was  at  first  as  pure  and 
true  a  passion  as  a  man  ever  felt  for  a  woman.  If  I 
degraded  it  into  a  system  of  calculation  and  deceit,  it 
was  in  the  desperate  effort  to  keep  you  at  all  costs. 
I  can't  go  on  with  that.  I  can't  betray  you.  I'm 
base  enough;  but  my  baseness  stops  just  there,  where, 
having  won  your  trust,  I'm  obliged  to  fling  it  back  to 
you  and  tell  you  it  was  misplaced." 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  murmured,  putting  her 
hand  to  her  brow  with  a  gesture  of  perplexity.  "What 
does  he  mean,  Mr.  Wollaston?" 

183 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  explain  from  the  beginning?" 
Muir  questioned,  turning  to  the  professor. 

"Please,"  the  old  man  murmured.  He  was  not 
looking  at  Muir,  nor  did  he  now  raise  his  head. 

"This  book,"  Muir  pursued,  "came  to  me  among 
those  that  my  father  inherited  from  my  grandfather. 
I  remember  vaguely  hearing  from  my  mother  that  it 
was  my  grandfather's  practice  to  buy  the  books  writ 
ten  by  his  friends,  even  though  presentation  copies 
had  been  sent  him  by  the  authors.  He  did  so  espe 
cially  when  those  books  had  not  had  a  successful  sale. 
In  this  way  there  were  often  in  my  grandfather's 
library  two  copies  of  the  same  work.  When  my 
mother  came  to  Boston  to  sell  my  father's  and  grand 
father's  books,  she  kept  for  me  one  copy  of  all  those 
of  which  there  were  duplicates.  The  others  went 
where  the  chances  of  sale  sent  them.  The  second 
copy  of  Christopher  Love's  book  found  its  way  event 
ually  to  Paul  Dunster." 

"He  burned  it,"  the  professor  grunted,  still  with 
out  looking  up. 

"I  myself,"  Muir  went  on,  "was  familiar  with  the 
outside  of  the  book  from  childhood;  but  it  was  not 
until  three  or  four  years  ago  that  I  ever  looked  into 
it.  When  I  did  so  I  was  struck  by  the  modern  tone 
pervading  it.  The  author  had  opened  up,  seventy 
years  ago,  some  of  those  very  trains  of  inquiry  which 
seem  to  belong  especially  to  our  own  time.  It  was 
clear  he  had  been  in  advance  of  his  age ;  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  the  book  needed  only  to  be  rewritten, 
with  an  application  to  the  actual  life  of  to-day,  to 
make  it  a  real  contribution  to  literature.  I  should 
like  to  say  that  I  had  no  intention  to  steal  from  the 

184 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

book.  My  intention  was  only  to  appropriate  its  de 
sign  and  general  trend  of  thought,  and  to  work  my 
own  experience  and  reading  on  social  subjects  into 
them.  It  was  in  the  actual  writing  of  the  book  that 
I  incorporated  more  from  the  original  work  than  I 
intended  at  first.  I  did  it  chiefly  as  a  saving  of  labor. 
In  many  passages — whole  pages  at  a  time — I  had  only 
to  modernize  the  phraseology  here  and  there.  When 
I  once  began  to  borrow  I  must  have  gone  on  without 
paying  much  attention  to  the  amount  I  was  taking. 
There  is  certainly  a  greater  similarity  between  the  two 
books  than  I  wn.s  aware  of  at  the  time  of  publication." 

He  paused  an  instant  as  if  thinking  out  his  next  sen 
tence.  As  he  did  so  Agatha  began  slowly  unbutton 
ing  the  glove  on  her  left  hand.  Muir  noticed  the  act 
and  turned  his  eyes  away. 

"All  this,  however,"  he  began  again,  "is  of  only 
secondary  importance.  The  crime  of  which  I  accuse 
myself  lies  less  in  taking  material  from  Christopher 
Love  than  in  denying  it  after  I  had  done  it." 

"Exactly,"  the  professor  assented,  still  with  eyes 
downcast. 

"When  Paul  Dunster,"  Muir  went  on,  once  more, 
"brought  up  the  subject  at  dinner  here,  on  the  night 
when  our  engagement  was  announced,  I  was  taken 
off  my  guard.  The  book  had  brought  me  a  sort  of 
reputation  and  I  was  vain.  It  had,  above  all,  brought 
— brought  Agatha — and  me — together — " 

He  stammered  and  lifted  his  eyes  towards  her. 
She  was  drawing  her  glove  quite  off.  It  was  the  sort 
of  action  to  stir  his  fighting  blood  and  nerve  him  to 
go  firmly  on  again,  even  though  it  must  be  in  the  way 
of  self-abasement. 

185 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"I  lied  then,"  he  said,  quietly.  "I  lied  before  you 
all.  I  lied  chiefly  out  of  vanity  and  from  the  fear  lest 
Agatha  should  see  one  of  my  poor  laurels  plucked 
from  me.  Having  begun  then  I  had  to  go  on.  I  had 
cut  off  my  own  retreat.  There  has  been  no  way  out 
of  it — till  now." 

At  the  last  word  Agatha  rose.  She  was  pale  and 
her  face  had  grown  hard.  She  said  nothing  and  look 
ed  at  no  one.  She  crossed  the  room  towards  the  door, 
and  Muir  rose  also.  As  she  passed  him  she  drew  off 
her  engagement-ring  and  held  it  out  in  his  direction. 
She  did  not  glance  at  him  and  he  took  the  ring  from 
her  without  a  word.  When  he  held  the  door  open  for 
her  she  acknowledged  the  act  by  the  slightest  possible 
inclination  of  the  head.  Then  she  passed  out  and  he 
closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  need  say  any  more,"  Muir  contin 
ued, returning  to  his  place, but  not  taking  his  seat  again. 

The  professor  nodded  his  head  in  assent.  Mrs. 
Wollaston  began  to  cry  softly. 

"  I  thought  I  ought  to  say  as  much  as  this — before 
going,"  he  added.  "Anything  else  you  will  imagine 
more  easily  than  I  could  tell  it,  and  it  would  only  be 
more  painful  for  you  if  I  tried." 

There  was  no  reply  to  this.  Only  Miss  Leggett  and 
Persis  looked  at  him  at  all.  There  was  a  second  or 
two  of  dead  silence  broken  only  by  Mrs.  Wollaston's 
gentle  sobs.  Then,  with  a  bow  of  leave-taking  to 
which  there  was  no  response,  Muir  took  up  the  letters 
and  the  brown  volume  he  had  brought  with  him  and 
left  the  room. 

He  was  at  the  street  door  when  he  heard  a  light  step 
behind  him. 

186 


The    Steps   of  Honor 

"  Mr.  Muir,"  Persis  whispered,  scarcely  finding  voice 
to  speak,  "I  want  to  shake  hands  with  you  and  tell 
you  that  I  shall  always  be  your  friend." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  as  he  pressed  her  hand  in 
return.  "It  will  be  something  for  me  to  remem 
ber." 

Then  he  passed  out  into  the  bright  autumn  sun 
shine,  where  all  the  familiar  life  was  going  on  just  as 
cheerfully  as  if  he  had  not  cut  himself  off  from  it 
forever. 


XVI 

'HEN  Anthony  Muir  appeared  at  24 
Greenland  Park,  the  news  of  his  down 
fall  had  preceded  him.  An  afternoon 
paper,  given  to  personalities,  had  told 
the  story  on  the  previous  day.  In 
the  evening  it  had  been  the  subject  of 
conversation  between  Mrs.  and  Miss  Brooks  and 
Johnny  Charterhouse.  It  saddened  what  would  have 
been  otherwise  a  cheerful  supper-table,  for  during  the 
day  the  boy  had  secured  a  small  place  in  an  office  in 
the  city  and  was  prepared  to  enjoy  himself. 

"I'd  heard  it  talked  of  while  I  was  at  Cambridge," 
he  explained  to  the  ladies,  "but  I  didn't  pay  much  at 
tention  to  it.  Well,  it  doesn't  prevent  him  from  be 
ing  the  best  man  in  the  world,"  he  added,  loyally. 

"I  don't  see  how  that  can  be,"  Lucy  Brooks  ob 
jected.  "He's  cheated  some  people  and  deceived 
others.  He  as  much  as  says  so  himself." 

She  was  a  pretty  girl,  of  that  delicate  type  of  pretti- 
ness  characteristic  of  the  latest  feminine  evolutions 
of  the  old  Yankee  heritage.  From  the  days  of  the 
seventeenth-century  immigrations  her  ancestors  had 
been  village  people  in  the  agricultural  regions  that 
depend  on  and  support  Boston.  They  had  respected 
themselves,  perhaps  not  unduly,  as  being  the  equals 
of  the  best,  and  so  they  had  bequeathed  to  Lucy 

188 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

Brooks  a  poise  of  the  head  in  which  independence 
rivalled  grace.  Her  fair  hair  rolled  splendidly  away 
from  the  whitest  of  brows  and  set  her  small,  smiling 
features  in  a  frame  like  a  picture.  "  Really,  that  girl 
might  be  anybody,"  her  mother's  genteel  customers 
sometimes  said  of  her,  and  it  was  true.  Lucy  Brooks, 
with  her  blue  eyes,  her  slender  waist,  her  tapering 
hands,  and  her  American  air  of  being  ready  for  what 
ever  life  might  require,  could  have  been  any  one — 
from  a  shop-girl  to  a  princess.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she 
was  preparing  herself  to  teach  school — not  from  irre 
sistible  drawing  to  the  task,  but  from  a  practical  idea 
that  it  would  be  an  agreeable  way  of  earning  a  living. 
In  the  intervals  of  study  she  helped  her  mother  with 
the  sewing  and  the  housework,  and,  notwithstanding 
the  variety  of  her  occupations,  she  found  time  to  ac 
cept  certain  pleasant  attentions  from  those  whom  she 
called  "the  boys."  It  was  to  be  regretted  that  her 
success  in  passing  examinations  had  not  kept  pace 
with  the  flowering  of  her  good  looks ;  and  now  when 
she  was  seventeen  she  had  to  confess  herself  below 
the  standard  her  future  career  demanded.  For  this 
reason  she  worked  hard  and  puzzled  her  fair  head 
over  dry  problems  and  ancient  tongues  with  which 
beauty  should  never  have  been  asked  to  vex  itself. 
A  year  ago  she  had  been  nearly  in  despair,  when 
Johnny  Charterhouse — whom  she  knew  through  some 
Roxbury  lads  at  Harvard — shyly  offered  his  help. 
He  was  so  small,  so  wistful,  so  different  from  the 
brisker,  bigger,  stronger  "boys"  of  her  acquaintance, 
that  she  had  had  no  hesitation  in  accepting  his  aid 
and  sometimes  letting  him  work  with  her  in  the  even 
ing.  Now,  because  he  had  left  Harvard,  and  was 

189 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

under  a  cloud,  she  was  slightly  scornful  of  him;  and 
since  he  had  come  to  the  house  to  live  she  had  studied 
in  her  room  alone. 

"If  he's  cheated  people,  so  have  I,"  Charterhouse 
said,  with  characteristic  simplicity;  "but  I  hope  it's 
in  me  to  pick  up  again." 

"I'd  like  to  know  why  it  ain't,"  Mrs.  Brooks  ex 
claimed,  warmly.  "If  every  one  who  ever  fell  was 
lamed  for  life  there'd  be  a  terrible  sight  of  people  go 
ing  on  crutches." 

Mrs.  Brooks  was  Lucy  with  the  difference  of  twenty 
years  disparity  in  age  and  greater  sturdiness  of  mould. 
She  had  grown  up  in  the  country  and  had  married 
there.  When  her  husband  came  to  seek  his  fortune  in 
Boston — as  a  clerk  in  the  city — she  had  followed  him; 
but  she  had  never  lost  her  simple  village  ways  and 
forms  of  speech.  Rather  tall,  slightly  angular,  with 
shrewd,  gray  eyes  looking  from  a  sweet,  strongly  set 
face,  she  was  the  type  of  the  Yankee  woman  of  the 
elder  generation — capable,  kindly,  ready  to  turn  her 
hand  to  any  task  and  shrinking  from  no  reasonable 
burden.  Her  voice  had  the  nasal  quality  inherited 
from  an  old-time  Puritan  stock,  and  in  her  inflections 
there  were  those  long-drawn,  "down-east"  cadences 
that  are  at  once  plaintive  and  emphatic. 

"Still,"  said  Lucy,  in  rather  cruel  response  to  her 
mother's  words,  "it's  nice  to  be  able  to  keep  on  one's 
feet." 

"It's  nicer,"  Mrs.  Brooks  rejoined,  "to  help  folks 
that  are  down  to  scramble  up  again." 

"And  it's  nicest  of  all,"  added  Johnny  Charter 
house,  "to  find  people  who  don't  Want  to  jump  on 
you  because  you've  tumbled." 

190 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

"I  should  never  want  to  jump  on  any  one,"  Lucy 
declared,  with  a  toss  of  her  head.  "I'm  perfectly 
satisfied  with  passing  them  by." 

"Like  the  priest  and  the  Levite  in  the  Bible,"  Mrs. 
Brooks  suggested. 

"  But,  ma,"  Lucy  argued,  "you  forget.  That  poor 
man  had  fallen  among  the  thieves.  He  wasn't  one  of 
them." 

"Well,  it  ain't  the  first  time,"  said  the  mother,  with 
gentle  promptness,  "that  a  thief  has  repented." 

"  But  that  doesn't  make  him  as  good  as  if  he  hadn't 
been  a  thief  at  all,"  the  girl  returned,  pertly. 

"Lucy  Brooks,  you  hadn't  ought  to  talk  like  that 
before  poor  Mr.  Charterhouse,"  Mrs.  Brooks  expos 
tulated,  later  in  the  evening;  "you'll  make  him  feel 
bad." 

"I've  no  patience  with  the  way  he  goes  on  about 
that  awful  Professor  Muir.  The  idea!  A  man  who's 
had  to  run  away  from  Harvard !  And,  to  hear  Johnny 
Charterhouse,  any  one  might  think  he  was  a  hero!" 

"I  s'pose,"  Mrs.  Brooks  explained,  "that  it's  be- 
cau3e  he's  thinking  less  of  the  one  thing  the  poor  man 
has  done  wrong  than  of  the  good  many  things  he's 
done  right.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that's  the  way 
you'd  like  folks  to  think  about  you." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  particular,"  the  girl  answered,  with 
the  insolence  of  youth  and  prettiness.  "If  any  one 
wants  to  take  me  on  my  worst  side  I  can  stand  it." 

"Then  you're  luckier  than  the  rest  of  us,"  the 
mother  said,  seating  herself,  with  her  sewing,  beside 
the  light.  "We  common  folks  have  to  be  taken  at 
our  best  or  we  make  a  pretty  homely  show." 

Lucy  went  to  her  studies,  and  Mrs.  Brooks 
191 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

stitched  in  silence.  As  she  did  so  her  mind  dwelt 
much  on  Muir,  partly  because  of  the  help  he  had 
given  Johnny  Charterhouse  and  partly  because  of  the 
haunting  effect  of  the  word  RUIN!  in  large  letters, 
that  had  formed  the  head-line  to  his  story  in  the 
afternoon  paper.  She  knew  but  vaguely  what  his 
ruin  was,  but  it  seemed  to  her  tragic  that  a  handsome, 
wise  young  man,  such  as  Johnny  Charterhouse  re 
ported  him  to  be,  should  come  to  such  misfortune. 
It  was  natural  to  her  to  dwell  more  on  his  suffering 
than  on  his  sin,  and  as  she  stitched  she  sighed  softly. 
Before  she  went  to  bed  she  prayed  for  him,  and  she 
did  the  same  next  morning.  When  Johnny  Charter 
house  had  gone  to  work,  and  Lucy  to  her  school,  the 
shadow  of  the  ruined  man  seemed  to  follow  Mrs. 
Brooks  about  the  house  and  to  lean  over  her  as  she 
bent  above  the  cutting-board. 

"I  vow,"  she  exclaimed  to  herself,  at  last,  "I 
couldn't  feel  worse  if  I'd  known  him." 

She  was  sewing  by  the  parlor  window  in  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon  when  she  saw  a  tall,  fair  man  stop 
before  the  gate  and  look  long  at  the  house.  He  was 
like  a  Viking,  but  a  Viking  crucified.  Mrs.  Brooks 
knew  by  instinct  who  he  was. 

"Step  in,  sir,"  she  faltered,  when  he  had  knocked. 

Muir  entered  slowly  and  followed  her  into  the  par 
lor. 

"Mr.  Charterhouse  isn't  in,"  she  explained,  for  the 
sake  of  saying  something,  when  they  had  sat  down. 
"You'll  be  glad  to  hear  that  he's  got  work.  He's  a 
very  up-and-coming  young  man  and  ought  to  do 
well." 

"That's  good,"  Muir  said,  dully.  "But  I  didn't 
192 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

come  to  see  him.     I  came  to  see  you      My  name  is 
Muir — Anthony  Muir." 

"  Oh,  I  know.  I  could  tell  who  you  were  the  min 
ute  I  saw  you." 

"I'm  in  a  good  deal  of  trouble — "  Muir  began, 
finding  it  difficult  to  tell  the  story  over  again. 

"I  know  all  that,"  she  interrupted,  hastening  to 
spare  him  further  explanations.  To  herself  she  was 
saying,  "  Perhaps  the  Lord  has  sent  him  to  me  to  help 
him — as  He  sent  Elijah  to  the  widow  woman  of 
Zidon." 

"And  I  thought,"  Muir  went  on,  "that  as  you  had 
been  so  good  to  Charterhouse — perhaps — if  you  had 
another  room — " 

"I've  a  beautiful  room,  sir — the  front  chamber — 
with  sun  on  it  all  day  long,  and  nobody  on  that  floor 
but  Mr.  Charterhouse." 

They  discussed  terms  and  arrangements  and,  in  a 
few  minutes,  went  up-stairs  to  inspect  the  apartment. 

"You  mustn't  think  it  '11  be  like  this,"  she  apolo 
gized.  "It  hasn't  been  lived  in  this  long  spell  back. 
I'm  sure  you'll  be  pleased  with  it,  and  that  I  could 
make  you  comfortable." 

On  entering  the  humble,  respectable  room  which 
was  to  be  his  future  home,  Muir  looked  about  him  in  a 
dazed  way.  It  was  as  if  he  had  passed  into  a  world 
where  his  mind  could  not  work.  Mrs.  Brooks's  plain 
tive  nasal  inflections  might  have  been  those  of  an  un 
known  language. 

"If  you  think  it  too  dear,"  she  ventured,  timidly, 
mistaking  his  silence  for  hesitation,  "we  might  say 
two  dollars  less." 

The  detail  brought  him  back  to  himself. 
13  193 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"  Oh  no,"  he  said,  quickly.  "  It  isn't  too  dear.  If 
you  can  be  ready  for  me  I'll  come  to-morrow  after 
noon." 

"  So  do,  Mr.  Muir,"  she  urged.  "  I'll  be  quite 
ready,  and  more  pleased  than  I  can  say  to  have 
you." 

Mrs.  Brooks  did  no  more  sewing  that  afternoon. 
Muir's  footsteps  had  scarcely  ceased  to  sound  on  the 
brick  pavement  of  Greenland  Park  before  the  two 
windows  of  the  front  chamber  were  wide  open  and  she 
had  begun  taking  the  carpet  up.  The  father  of  the 
prodigal  did  not  kill  the  fatted  calf  more  eagerly  than 
Mrs.  Brooks  rubbed  and  scrubbed  and  scoured  all  that 
day.  She  went  about  the  house  gleaning  the  best 
furniture  from  all  the  rooms — the  pretty  toilet  set 
from  Lucy's,  the  muslin  curtains  from  her  own,  and 
the  sateen  eider-down  quilt  from  Charterhouse's.  Mrs. 
Brooks  would  have  made  any  contrite  sinner  welcome, 
but  when  the  penitent  had  deep,  mournful,  blue  eyes 
and  a  sweeping,  blond  mustache,  she  was  too  much  of 
a  woman  not  to  feel  that  it  was  a  case  in  which  re 
morse  was  flavored  with  romance.  As  a  Harvard 
professor  he  brought  added  dramatic  contrasts  to  the 
situation,  just  as  a  fallen  angel  must  always  reflect 
on  earth  something  of  the  glory  of  the  heights  from 
which  he  fell. 

It  was,  nevertheless,  with  some  misgiving  that  Mrs. 
Brooks  confessed  to  Lucy,  on  her  return,  the  doings 
of  the  afternoon.  "Well,  ma,"  the  girl  protested, 
"we  might  as  well  set  up  a  home  for  lost  dogs  at  once, 
or  give  out  that  we're  keeping  a  reform  school.  I'm 
sure  the  boys  will  stay  away  from  the  house  alto 
gether."  But  she  did  not  object  to  the  appropriation 

194 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

of  her  toilet  set,  and  Mrs.  Brooks  was  discreet  enough 
to  let  the  subject  rest. 

Muir  arrived  towards  dusk  on  the  following  after 
noon.  He  greeted  Mrs.  Brooks  in  the  absent  manner 
he  had  displayed  yesterday,  and  went  straight  to  his 
room.  It  was  a  disappointment  to  Mrs.  Brooks,  on 
showing  him  up,  that  he  did  not  remark  the  improve 
ments  effected  or  express  his  pleasure  in  the  good 
taste  with  which  they  had  been  made.  He  waited 
with  evident  impatience  for  her  to  leave  the  room; 
then  he  shut  the  door. 

She  could  not  know,  good  soul,  that  in  coming  to 
profit  by  the  welcome  and  comfort  she  was  so  ready 
to  bestow  he  was  only  tasting  the  first  material  bitter 
ness  of  his  disgrace.  The  immediate  impression  on 
him  was  like  that  on  the  criminal  when,  after  the  ex 
citement  of  the  trial  and  the  journey  to  prison,  he 
reaches  the  emptiness  and  silence  of  the  cell.  One 
glance  at  his  new  surroundings  brought  home  to  Muir 
— by  nature  sensitive  to  externals — the  change  that 
had  come  over  his  life.  He  dropped  into  a  chair  and 
stared  stupidly  about  him. 

Hitherto  he  had  been  busy.  From  the  moment 
when  he  had  closed  the  Wollastons'  door  behind  him 
he  had  scarcely  taken  the  time  to  eat  or  sleep.  He 
had  toiled  feverishly  at  the  preparations  for  his  de 
parture.  He  was  breaking  his  bridges  behind  him, 
and  he  was  eager  to  be  gone.  But  while  the  work 
lasted  it  was  work.  He  was  in  his  old  surroundings 
and  amid  the  symbols  of  the  duties  that  had  made 
up  his  life.  They  were  dead  symbols  to  him  now,  it 
was  true,  but  death  is  never  quite  death  as  long  as  the 
form  we  have  loved  has  not  yet  been  put  away.  Muir 

195 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

could  still  look  out  of  his  windows  and  see  the  familiar 
life  going  on.  He  could  hear  the  voices  of  students 
going  to  and  fro  in  the  hall  and  the  tramp  of  their  feet. 
In  spite  of  what  had  happened  he  was  still  at  Harvard, 
where  his  life  since  childhood  had  been  passed  and 
all  his  interests  were  centred.  Here  and  there  he  had 
glimpses  of  the  red  brick  walls  behind  the  elms,  and 
not  far  away  was  the  stately  eighteenth-century  roof 
beneath  which,  as  he  suspected,  Agatha  Royal  was 
eating  out  her  heart.  He  had  suffered  more  than 
he  knew  that  it  was  possible  to  suffer  out  of  hell; 
but  at  least  he  had  suffered  there,  amid  the  mate 
rial  conditions  he  knew,  and  with  the  externals 
of  the  life  he  had  lived  hitherto  lying  all  about 
him. 

And  now  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  suddenly 
dropped  out  into  space.  Everything  was  different. 
In  Greenland  Park  he  could  not  have  felt  farther 
away  from  Harvard  if  he  had  put  out  to  sea.  In 
Mrs.  Brooks's  modest,  clean  front  chamber  it  was  not 
the  luxury  of  Westmorland  Hall  that  he  missed,  it 
was  that  sense  of  work  to  be  done  which  had  given  him 
a  motive  for  existence.  It  was  as  if  everything  had 
gone.  There  was  nothing  to  think  about,  nothing  to 
do.  There  was  no  reason  for  his  being  here  more 
than  elsewhere;  there  was  no  reason  for  going  else 
where  rather  than  for  staying  here.  He  had  not  even 
the  pressing  sense  of  being  obliged  to  work  for  a  liv 
ing,  for,  after  paying  back  to  his  publishers  as  much 
money  as  the  book  had  brought  him,  he  had  still  a 
few  hundreds  of  dollars  a  year  to  stand  between  him 
and  want.  He  had  no  employment,  no  friends,  no 
future,  no  honor  left.  He  had  reached  the  negation 

196 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

of  everything.  He  could  only  sit  stupidly,  letting 
himself  sink  into  lethargy  and  numbness,  while  the 
darkness  filled  the  little  room,  and  Mrs.  Brooks  stood 
trembling  at  the  door,  wondering  whether  she  dared 
to  take  him  in  a  cup  of  tea. 


XVII 

HJIR  refused  Mrs.  Brooks's  cup  of  tea 
as  he  refused  all  her  well-meant  atten 
tions  the  next  day  and  the  next  and 
the  next.  In  the  recesses  of  despair 
into  which  he  had  withdrawn  he  was 
inaccessible  to  small  acts  of  sympathy. 
As  far  as  he  was  able,  he  shut  himself  up  in  darkness 
and  solitude,  shrinking  from  the  approach  of  any 
thing  human  as  from  that  which  hurt  him  most.  In 
the  great  city,  throbbing  with  the  beat  of  kindly 
hearts,  and  eager  in  the  pursuit  of  healthy  interests, 
there  was  no  place  for  him.  A  man  without  honor 
could  not  be  other  than  an  outcast  from  the  round  of 
fellowship.  Muir  knew  it  and  did  not  complain.  He 
no  longer  upbraided  fate  nor  took  the  trouble  to  call 
down  curses  on  himself.  He  accepted  the  chastise 
ment  that  had  overtaken  him,  and  only  sank  under  it 
into  speechless,  emotionless  apathy. 

If  he  had  any  active  desire  it  was  for  closer  secrecy 
and  deeper  seclusion.  He  thought,  at  times,  of  seek 
ing  it  in  some  little-known  West  Indian  or  Pacific 
island,  where  no  sound  from  the  outside  world  would 
reach  him.  He  thought  of  a  monastery  he  had  visited 
in  the  Italian  hills,  where  he  could  bury  himself  alive. 
He  thought  of  the  teeming  quarters  of  London  or 
Paris  where  he  could  be  lost  to  ken.  He  thought  of 

198 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

death  more  than  of  anything  else.  Not  to  have  to  eat 
and  sleep!  Not  to  have  to  wake  into  his  empty 
world  and  to  take  up  again  his  useless  existence! 
Not  to  be  stretching  out  aching  arms  to  the  shadow 
of  a  woman  who  could  never  think  of  him  but  in 
scorn!  Not  to  have  to  know  himself  as  himself! — to 
be  rid  of  the  intolerable  burden  of  his  own  identity ! 
These  possibilities  lured  him;  but  again  he  shrank 
from  seizing  them  with  the  hesitation  of  a  man  who 
believes  he  has  a  soul. 

"If  I  didn't  believe  that,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I'd 
do  it.  But  I  believe  it  and  I  can't." 

So  he  stayed  on  in  the  peaceful  suburban  propriety 
of  Greenland  Park  —  where  neat  wooden  cottages 
stood  in  rows,  where  life  was  neighborly,  and  the  boys 
and  girls  sported  gayly  in  the  evenings.  Never  was 
there  a  more  commonplace  background  to  an  im 
mense  spiritual  desolation.  To  Muir's  intellectual 
fastidiousness  it  was  part  of  the  irony  of  his  lot.  In 
stead  of  the  rock  of  Prometheus,  with  the  eagles  eat 
ing  out  his  heart,  he  had  Mrs.  Brooks 's  clean  front 
chamber  with  its  innocence  of  everything  poetic,  pen 
itential,  or  picturesque.  But  it  did  not  matter. 
Nothing  mattered.  It  makes  no  difference  to  the 
drowned  man  what  sort  of  shore  hangs  above  the 
waves  where  he  is  tossing. 

And  it  was  as  a  drowned  man  that  Muir  looked 
upon  himself.  He  could  not  have  been  more  sudden 
ly  and  completely  cut  off  from  the  world  he  had  known 
if  he  had  leaped  from  a  cliff  and  disappeared.  When 
his  confession  had  become  public,  silence  had  settled 
round  about  him.  From  the  people  among  whom  the 
greater  part  of  his  life  had  been  spent  there  had  come  no 

199 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

word  of  reproach  or  blame — there  had  come  no  word 
at  all.  In  the  two  or  three  brief  interviews  he  had  been 
obliged  to  hold  with  men  in  official  positions  in  the 
university  there  had  been  only  the  laconic  acceptance 
of  the  fact  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  go.  There 
had  been  neither  condemnation  of  his  crime  nor  com 
miseration  for  his  downfall.  There  had  been  a  studi 
ous  absence  of  comment  and  an  obvious  implication 
that  the  sooner  he  effaced  himself  the  less  painful  it 
would  be  for  all  concerned.  So  he  went  in  silence. 
During  the  days  in  which  he  worked  at  his  prepara 
tions  he  thought  it  possible  that  Fisher  or  Glynn  or 
Parker  Stubbs  might  come  to  send  him  off  with  one 
pressure  of  the  hand  in  memory  of  the  days  they  had 
spent  together,  but  no  one  appeared.  So  be  it.  It 
was  less  embarrassing  for  him  and  them.  When  he 
received  from  Agatha  Royal  the  packet  containing 
the  presents  he  had  given  her  he  searched  it  through 
and  through  in  the  hope  of  finding  even  a  bitter  or 
disdainful  word ;  but  there  was  nothing — nothing  but 
the  address,  and  that  written  by  another  hand.  So 
be  it.  It  was  easier  for  himself  and  her.  When  he 
went  down  the  stairs  of  Westmorland  Hall  he  knew 
that  every  human  tie  of  his  was  broken,  that  every 
relation  of  friendship  or  love  he  had  ever  known  was 
at  an  end.  He  went,  consciously  leaving  everything 
behind  him,  out  into  a  world  where,  if  he  began  at  all, 
it  must  be  in  every  sense  from  the  very  beginning 
again.  In  prison  the  criminal  has  some  one  to  come 
now  and  then  to  ask  for  him  in  the  parlor;  but  An 
thony  Muir  was  aware  that  in  his  dishonor  he  would 
be  left  gently,  though  rigorously,  alone. 

It  was  not  strange,  therefore,  that  Mrs.  Brooks's 
200 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

tender  solicitations  made  no  appeal  to  him.  In  his 
place  of  torment  he  was  beyond  the  touch  of  the  poor 
human  hand  bringing  a  cup  of  tea  or  an  extra  blanket 
for  his  bed.  That  might  comfort  the  sick  or  the 
stricken  or  the  condemned  to  death,  but  not  the  man 
who  is  hiding  under  a  cloak  of  shame.  Anthony 
Muir  waved  all  material  attentions  aside,  from  a  sense 
not  so  much  of  their  insignificance  as  of  their  unfitting- 
ness  to  his  state.  When  it  was  necessary  to  eat  or 
drink  he  took  long  walks  into  the  Italian  quarter  of 
the  city,  where  it  seemed  to  him  that,  for  the  time  be 
ing,  he  had  the  shelter  of  a  foreign  land.  He  went  out 
as  little  as  possible  before  dusk  and  he  returned  only 
in  time  to  fling  himself  on  his  bed  for  the  dream- 
haunted  night.  In  the  hours  of  daylight  he  smoked 
and  did  nothing.  There  was  nothing  to  do.  From 
the  few  books  he  had  brought  with  him  he  turned 
away  in  revulsion.  Books  would  be  but  empty  cas 
kets  to  him  from  now  henceforth.  On  the  table  in 
his  room  Mrs.  Brooks  had  been  careful  to  put  paper 
and  pens,  but  they  were  as  useless  to  him  as  to  a  blind 
man.  What  should  he  write  now?  The  very  name 
of  Anthony  Muir  to  a  letter,  an  article,  an  essay,  or  a 
book  would  mean  its  instantaneous  rejection.  He 
had  nothing  but  his  intellect  to  offer  to  the  world, 
and  now — after  his  confession — the  world  would  be 
obliged  in  self-respect  to  laugh  such  an  intellect  to 
scorn. 

"  I  must  start  all  over  again  at  something  else,"  he 
would  say  to  himself,  when  his  mind  awoke  for  a  few 
minutes  from  its  paralyzing  lethargy.  "But  how 
and  where  and  at  what?" 

A  week  passed,  and  to  these  questions  he  had  found 
201 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

no  answer.  And  yet  the  natural  impulses  of  energy 
and  strength  were  beginning  to  assert  themselves. 
With  the  adaptability  of  youth  he  was  growing  ac 
customed  to  his  fallen  condition.  There  were  mo 
ments  when  it  almost  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had 
never  known  any  other.  The  seven  days  that  sep 
arated  him  from  his  life  at  Harvard  might  have  been 
seven  years.  It  was  not  that  he  suffered  less,  but  he 
suffered  with  some  consciousness  of  what  was  im 
mediately  around  him.  He  became  aware  of  Mrs. 
Brooks's  small,  assiduous  kindnesses,  and  one  day,  in 
going  out,  he  stopped  to  thank  her. 

It  was  not  much,  but  it  pleased  her,  and  she  re 
ported  it  to  Lucy  in  the  evening. 

"Ma,  you  make  me  tired,"  the  girl  responded, 
scornfully.  "I  wouldn't  stand  that  man's  airs  an 
other  day  if  I  were  in  your  place.  Here  you've  been 
doing  for  him  and  doing  for  him  for  a  week  past,  and 
he  scarcely  notices  that  you're  alive.  I  haven't  even 
set  eyes  on  him,  and  neither  has  Mr.  Charterhouse. 
It  makes  me  uneasy  to  have  such  a  mysterious  creat 
ure  in  the  house." 

"I  feel  to  do  it,  Lucy,"  Mrs.  Brooks  insisted,  plain 
tively.  "  I  can't  help  believing  the  Lord  has  directed 
his  steps  to  us  to  some  good  end." 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  it  is,  then,"  Lucy  de 
manded.  "There  hasn't  been  a  boy,  nor  the  shadow 
of  a  boy,  come  near  the  house  since  he  arrived." 

"  I  know  it's  hard  on  you,  child;  but  I'm  sure  you're 
willing  to  give  up  a  little  pleasure  if  there  is  a  chance 
to  do  him  good." 

"I  haven't  made  up  my  mind  about  that,"  the  girl 
flung  back,  as  she  flaunted  off  to  her  studies. 

202 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

That  evening  Muir  came  home  early.  The  night 
was  wet  and  windy.  On  leaving  the  queer  foreign 
eating-house  where  he  had  dined  he  tramped  about 
in  obscure  streets,  trying  to  fatigue  himself  into  the 
mental  and  moral  numbness  which  was  his  only  chance 
of  peace.  But  the  sheer  physical  discomfort  of  wind 
and  rain  were  too  much  for  him.  For  the  first  time 
he  thought,  with  a  faint  gleam  of  pleasure,  of  the 
snug  little  room  in  Greenland  Park,  with  its  shaded 
lamp,  the  arm-chair  drawn  up  beside  it,  and  his  pipe 
on  the  table.  There  was  nothing  to  do  there,  it  was 
true,  but  it  was  at  least  a  refuge  from  the  storm  out 
side. 

And  yet  when  he  returned  he  was  sorry  to  have 
done  it.  Once  established  with  his  slippers  and  his 
pipe  the  vacancy  of  the  long  hours  before  he  could 
sleep  appalled  him.  He  tried  to  read,  but  threw  the 
book  from  him  without  having  found  the  place.  His 
mind  was  more  than  usually  awake,  and  his  thoughts 
went  back  to  all  the  pleasant  occupations  of  which  he 
could  have  had  the  choice  that  night  if  he  had  not 
fallen.  In  the  blue  rings  of  smoke  that  curled  up 
ward  into  the  shadows  he  seemed  to  see  Agatha 
Royal's  face,  with  its  faithful  smile  of  welcome. 

"I'll  go  mad  if  I  think  about  that,"  he  cried  to 
himself,  and  sprang  to  his  feet  with  the  desperate 
determination  to  go  out  again.  As  he  did  so  a  timid 
knock  sounded  on  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  he  called,  impatiently,  expecting  to  see 
Mrs.  Brooks  with  one  of  her  numerous  forms  of  re 
freshment. 

But  it  was  not  Mrs.  Brooks,  it  was  Johnny  Charter 
house. 

203 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"I  thought,  sir,"  the  boy  faltered,  overwhelmed  by 
his  own  boldness,  "that  if  you  hadn't  seen  the  even 
ing  papers  you  might  like  to  look  at  these." 

He  thrust  the  papers  hastily  on  the  nearest  chair 
and,  before  Muir  had  time  to  thank  him,  disappeared. 

Muir  stood  for  a  minute  slightly  bewildered. 
Though  they  occupied  adjoining  rooms,  he  had  almost 
forgotten  the  lad's  existence.  He  had  not  shrunk 
from  seeing  him;  he  had  too  little  pride  left  for  that. 
He  had  only  been  too  deeply  sunk  in  his  own  misery 
to  think  about  him  at  all.  Now  the  recollection  of  a 
certain  similarity  between  their  fates  returned  to  him, 
and  he  was  conscious  of  the  slightest  possible  sense  of 
satisfaction  in  the  knowledge  that  some  one  with 
whom  he  had  an  incipient  sympathy  was  near  at 
hand. 

The  incident  changed  the  current  of  his  thoughts, 
and  he  gave  up  the  idea  of  going  out.  He  took  the 
evening  papers  with  some  misgiving  and  sat  down  to 
look  them  over.  They  were  the  first  he  had  seen 
since  he  had  read,  eight  days  ago,  the  article  on  him 
self  with  the  flaring  head-line  RUIN !  He  glanced 
hastily  through  the  pages,  dreading  to  find  some  men 
tion  of  his  name ;  but  it  was  a  relief  to  see  that  he  was 
apparently  forgotten.  Then  he  began  to  scan  the 
news,  as  he  used  to  do  in  the  days  when  the  world  had 
still  some  interest  for  him. 

Nothing  of  importance  had  happened,  and  yet,  in 
spite  of  himself,  he  read  with  the  absorption  with 
which  one  reads  after  having  been  cut  off  from  the 
sources  of  information  by  a  week  at  sea.  He  was 
surprised,  in  the  end,  to  find  that  he  had  forgotten 
his  cares  for  a  little  while  and  that  the  evening  had 

204 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

sped  away.  He  was  grateful  to  Johnny  Charterhouse, 
and  before  going  to  bed  he  passed  to  the  boy's  door 
and  told  him  so.  He  found  Charterhouse  writing  by 
the  light  of  a  student's  lamp.  At  his  elbow  on  the 
table  was  a  dictionary.  Muir's  heart  gave  a  feeble 
bound  at  sight  of  the  familiar  symbols  of  intellectual 
work.  It  was  like  suddenly  seeing  a  resemblance  to  a 
dead  face  in  a  living  one. 

When  he  had  returned  the  papers  and  expressed 
his  thanks  for  them,  he  accepted  Charterhouse's  con 
fused  invitation  to  sit  down.  For  the  first  minute 
neither  thought  of  the  change  in  the  situation  since 
they  had  last  met.  They  talked  of  what  Charter 
house  himself  had  done  in  the  way  of  getting  work. 

"But  I'm  glad  to  see  you  turn  your  evenings  to 
good  account,"  Muir  said,  with  a  glance  at  the  dic 
tionary. 

"I'm  afraid  it  isn't  what  you'd  call  study,"  Char 
terhouse  explained.  "In  the  house  where  I'm  en 
gaged  there's  a  good  deal  of  foreign  business,  and  the 
clerk  who  writes  French  is  going  to  leave.  So  I 
thought  that  if  I  rubbed  up  the  French  I  know  I 
might  have  a  chance  of  getting  his  place." 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  Muir  said,  approvingly. 
"Just  how  are  you  doing  it?" 

"Well,"  Charterhouse  went  on,  shyly,  "it's  all  in 
the  translating  and  answering  of  correspondence. 
What  I'm  doing  is  to  make  up  imaginary  replies  to 
imaginary  letters.  I'm  hunting  for  the  correct  busi 
ness  terms." 

"Just  let  me  see." 

Muir  took  a  small  chair,  and,  drawing  it  up  to  the 
boy's  side,  looked  over  his  shoulder. 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"That's  not  bad,"  he  commented,  when  he  had  run 
through  what  Charterhouse  had  written.  "There 
are  a  few  quite  common  expressions  that  you've  mis 
taken.  There,  for  instance,  '  Je  prie  de  vous  informer 
de  la  reception  de  votre  lettre '  isn't  a  good  way  of  say 
ing  '  I  beg  to  inform  you  of  the  reception  of  your  letter. ' 
Better  put,  '  J'ai  I'honneur  de  vous  accuser  de  la  re 
ception,'  et  cetera.  And  there  again,  '  marchand  en 
gros  '  is  'wholesale  merchant,' not '  marchand  en  grand.' 
There's  a  grammatical  error;  marchandises  is  feminine 
and  plural,  not  masculine  and  singular.  And  I  see, 
too,  that  you're  a  little  weak  on  the  agreement  of  the 
past  participle.  You're  quite  right  here  in  saying, 
1  quand  nous  aurons  recu  votre  lettre,'  but  down  there 
it  should  be, '  la  lettre  que  nous  avons  recite.'  Now, 
suppose  you  start  afresh  and  write  it  over  again?" 

Charterhouse  thanked  him  and  did  so.  Muir  wait 
ed  and  made  new  criticisms.  When  he  rose  to  say 
good-night  it  was  already  late,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  long,  weary  weeks  he  was  sleepy. 

"We'll  go  on  with  that  to-morrow  night,  Charter 
house,"  he  said,  as  he  was  leaving.  "When  Downing 
&  Co.  have  lost  one  French  correspondent  I  think  we 
can  be  sure  of  having  another  ready  to  put  in  his  place." 

On  returning  to  his  own  room  Muir  did  not  analyze 
his  emotions.  He  did  not  ask  whence  came  the 
faint  sense  of  comfort  that  stole  over  his  heavy  heart. 
He  was  hungry,  and  he  ate  the  biscuit  and  drank  the 
glass  of  milk  Mrs.  Brooks  had  placed  on  his  table  in 
his  absence.  He  was  tired  and  went  to  bed.  The 
human  hand,  stretched  out  to  him  through  the  dark 
ness,  was  touching  him  at  last,  and,  unconsciously  to 
himself,  he  was  beginning  to  respond  to  it. 

206 


XVIII 

HE  storm  was  wild  that  night,  and  the 
next  day  it  was  wilder.  Muir  re 
mained  in  his  room  writing  letters  for 
Johnny  Charterhouse  to  answer.  He 
made  himself  Monsieur  Durand,  of 
Paris,  and  Monsieur  Dupont,  of  Bor 
deaux,  and  took  pains  to  introduce  all  the  technical 
terms  he  could  think  of  in  connection  with  leather, 
wool,  or  wine.  The  task  gave  him  a  double  pleasure. 
It  brought  into  play  once  more  the  mental  faculties 
for  which  it  had  seemed  he  would  never  have  use 
again,  and  it  appealed  to  his  instinct  for  teaching. 
To  teach  was  one  of  the  first  needs  of  his  nature.  In 
the  development  of  an  idea  or  the  expansion  of  a  mind 
he  had  the  same  delight  as  the  artist  in  the  evolution 
of  a  picture  or  the  conception  of  a  role.  So,  in  enter 
ing  into  Johnny  Charterhouse's  humble  efforts  to  ob 
tain  a  better  place,  Muir  was  getting  back  to  the 
ground  on  which  he  was  at  home.  He  did  not  state 
the  fact  to  himself  or  take  notice  of  its  significance ;  he 
only  knew  that  the  stormy  day  passed  quickly. 

It  was  when  the  dusk  was  gathering,  and  Muir 
stood  at  a  window,  thinking  with  dismay  of  the  long, 
wet  walk  he  must  take  to  reach  his  Italian  restau 
rant,  that  Mrs.  Brooks  suddenly  appeared  at  the  door. 
"Something  told  me  to  do  it,"  she  explained  to  Lucy, 

207 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

afterwards,  when  the  results  of  her  proceeding  had 
taken  shape.  "I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  that  poor 
man  turning  out  into  the  storm  only  to  get  something 
to  eat,  and  us  with  plenty  of  good  victuals  ready  to 
set  on  the  table.  And  just  as  I  was  a-thinking  it  over 
something  told  me  to  walk  right  up  and  ask  him  to 
supper. ' ' 

Muir  declined  the  proffered  hospitality,  partly 
through  fear  of  giving  his  hostess  trouble,  and  partly 
from  a  sense  of  awkwardness  in  putting  himself  on 
exactly  the  same  level  as  Johnny  Charterhouse.  In 
spite  of  all  that  had  happened  he  had  a  certain  dignity 
to  maintain.  He  preserved  it  better — or  so  it  seemed 
to  him — amid  the  picturesque  dirt  of  the  Italian  quar 
ter  than  would  have  been  possible  in  the  unromantic 
cleanliness  of  Greenland  Park.  But,  notwithstand 
ing  his  hesitation,  "something  told"  Mrs.  Brooks  to 
press  her  invitation  home. 

"You  don't  know  how  I  sh'd  love  to  have  you,  Mr. 
Muir,"  she  quavered.  "My  daughter  Lucy'll  be  to 
home  from  school,  and  she'd  admire  to  make  your 
acquaintance;  I  know  she  would.  And  such  a  night, 
too!  It's  enough  to  give  any  one  their  death  just  to 
face  it.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  your  turning  out 
into  it  when  we've  plenty  and  to  spare  in  the  house." 

Muir  yielded  with  some  misgiving,  but  when  he 
went  down,  an  hour  later,  to  Mrs.  Brooks's  modest 
dining-room  he  did  not  regret  having  done  so.  It 
was  bright  and  cheerful,  and  the  supper  was  of  the 
simple,  wholesome  variety  he  had  eaten  many  a  time 
in  summer  rambles  through  Vermont  or  New  Hamp 
shire  villages.  Mrs.  Brooks  and  Lucy  waited  at  table, 
serving  the  two  men  first,  and  then  sitting  down  to 

208 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

eat  with  them.  Charterhouse  was  in  good  spirits  and 
talked,  with  what  for  him  was  briskness,  of  the  news 
in  town.  Muir,  at  first  tinder  some  constraint  from 
the  strangeness  of  his  situation,  gradually  felt  himself 
at  home  in  this  atmosphere  of  unpretentious  friendli 
ness. 

On  taking  his  place  at  table  he  had  scarcely  looked 
at  Lucy  Brooks,  though  he  sat  opposite  to  her.  It 
was  not  until  she  was  helping  her  mother  to  change 
the  plates  that  he  noticed  her  pretty  figure — in  a  rose- 
colored  blouse  and  gray  cloth  skirt — and  her  grace 
fully  shaped  head,  with  the  mass  of  fair  hair  low  on  the 
neck. 

"You're  studying  to  teach,  I  think,  Miss  Brooks," 
Muir  said,  when  she  sat  down  again. 

"I'm  studying,"  the  girl  answered,  with  a  light 
laugh;  "whether  it's  to  teach  or  not  will  depend  on 
how  I  pass  my  examinations  when  the  time  comes." 

She  was  piqued  by  Muir's  lack  of  attention  to  her, 
and  yet  when  he  addressed  her  she  blushed. 

"Oh,  you'll  pass  all  right,  if  you  work  hard," 
Johnny  Charterhouse  said,  encouragingly. 

"Lucy's  bright,  but  backward,"  Mrs.  Brooks  ob 
served.  "Mr.  Charterhouse  has  helped  her  some — a 
good  deal,  I  guess — but  there's  still  lots  for  her  to  do." 

"That's  not  very  complimentary,  ma,"  Lucy  com 
plained.  "  I'm  no  more  backward  than  plenty  of 
other  girls  I  know.  It's  only  that — that — " 

"That  what?"  Muir  smiled,  sympathetically.  "Tell 
us.  I'm  an  old  hand  at  teaching,  you  know." 

" That  I  hate  study,"  the  girl  burst  out.  "It's  such 
drudgery." 

"Of  course,"  Muir  agreed.  "Everything  worth 
14  209 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

doing  involves  drudgery;  and  teaching  more  than 
most  things,  perhaps." 

"But  I  don't  like  doing  what  I  can't  do  easily," 
Lucy  rejoined.  "That's  why  I  hate  Latin  and  alge 
bra." 

"There's  a  good  deal  of  difference,"  Muir  said, 
slowly,  "between  studying  for  one's  own  information 
only  and  studying  in  order  to  teach  others.  There 
are  subjects,  dry  and  uninteresting  to  one's  own 
taste,  that  become  quite  absorbing  when  you  know 
you're  going  into  them  for  some  one  else." 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  not  unselfish  enough  to  feel  that," 
Lucy  sighed.  "  If  a  thing  is  dry,  it's  dry,  and  I  might 
think  about  other  people  till  I  thought  myself  dazed 
and  it  wouldn't  make  any  difference." 

"That  isn't  just  my  point,"  Muir  explained.  "I 
mean  that  the  very  fact  that  you're  trying  to  under 
stand  a  subject  for  the  sake  of  making  it  clear  to 
others  puts  you  unconsciously  into  sympathy  with 
it  and  sends  your  mind  off  looking  for  the  salient  or 
essential  points  and  the  best  way  of  explaining  them." 

"It  wouldn't  send  mine,"  Lucy  insisted.  "I 
shouldn't  like  Latin  any  better  if  I  had  to  teach  a 
thousand  children  every  day." 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?"  Muir  laughed. 

"The  matter  with  it,"  the  girl  answered,  "is  that 
it's  quite  impossible.  There  never  could  have  been 
people  who  dropped  their  words  all  about,  anyhow, 
those  that  ought  to  come  first  in  the  middle,  those 
that  ought  to  be  in  the  middle  at  the  beginning,  and 
the  beginning  itself  nowhere.  It's  as  if  you  threw 
the  words  of  a  sentence  into  the  air  and  arranged 
them  as  they  happened  to  come  down." 

210 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"  How  long  have  you  been  working  at  Latin?"  Muir 
inquired. 

"Two  years,"  she  answered,  "and  I'm  not  much 
further  than  where  I  began." 

"Perhaps  I  could  help  you." 

He  spoke  from  habit — from  sheer  instinctive  sym 
pathy  with  the  young  thing  floundering  along  the 
toilsome  road  to  knowledge.  If  there  was  an  upleap- 
ing  of  his  heart  in  resuming  the  mission  with  which 
Heaven  had  sent  him  into  the  world  he  was  not,  for 
the  moment,  aware  of  it.  He  only  hastened  the  end 
of  supper  with  perceptible  eagerness,  and,  while  Lucy 
helped  her  mother  to  clear  the  table  and  get  out  her 
books,  he  busied  himself  in  explaining  the  letters  he 
had  written  for  Johnny  Charterhouse. 

"You'll  see,"  he  told  the  boy,  "that  I've  brought 
in  all  the  terms  we  spoke  of  last  night,  and  I  want  you 
to  be  especially  careful  with  your  past  participles. 
By  the  time  you've  answered  these  I  shall  have  fin 
ished  with  Miss  Brooks.  Then  I'll  come  up." 

So  the  evening  passed  even  more  quickly  than  the 
day.  It  was  nearly  ten  when  Lucy  Brooks  pushed 
away  her  Virgil  and  looked  up  smiling  and  trium 
phant.  She  felt  that,  after  all,  she  knew  more  Latin 
than  she  had  supposed.  She  had  scanned  and  parsed 
and  construed  in  such  a  way  that  Muir  had  kept  say 
ing,  "Well  done!"  "That's  good!"  all  the  evening. 
When  he  said,  "That's  not  quite  right;  where's  your 
nominative?"  it  had  required  only  the  slightest  steer 
ing  on  his  part  to  enable  her  to  go  smoothly.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life  she  had  an  inkling  that  the  ALneid 
might  be  "real  poetry,"  and  the  hexameter  some 
thing  more  than  an  aimless  collection  of  sounds.  It 

211 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

was  only  on  reflection  that  she  grasped  the  fact  that 
the  quality,  if  not  the  quantity,  of  Muir's  explana 
tions  was  the  cause  of  her  sudden  progress.  She 
thanked  him  with  pretty  effusiveness  that  was  all  the 
more  sincere  from  her  contrition  at  having  judged 
him  harshly. 

"Oh,  I  like  doing  it,"  Muir  smiled,  carelessly.  "If 
it  helps  you,  we  can  go  on  with  it  to-morrow  night,  and 
perhaps  I  could  give  you  a  lift  with  your  algebra." 

"I'm  not  so  bad  at  that,"  the  girl  returned.  "I 
hate  it,  though  I  can  do  it  somehow.  But  my  chum, 
Daisy  Pine,  is  simply  awful  at  it.  The  teacher  just 
can't  get  it  into  her  head.  She  lives  next  door." 

"Then  bring  her  in,"  Muir  said,  warmly,  seizing 
the  request  in  Lucy's  intonation.  "There's  nothing 
stupider  than  algebra  when  it  isn't  clear  to  you,  and  I 
dare  say  I  shall  be  able  to  help  her." 

To  help!  The  word  was  coming  frequently  to 
Muir's  lips.  He  used  it  several  times  again  when  he 
went  up  to  work  with  Johnny  Charterhouse.  "I 
could  help  you  in  this.  I  could  help  you  in  that,"  he 
kept  repeating,  in  approval  of  the  boy's  vaguely 
sketched  plans  of  future  study.  He  noticed  the 
repetition  himself  later  when  he  had  returned  to  his 
own  room  and  was  thinking  the  evening  over.  The 
reflection  made  him  smile  grimly. 

'"He  saved  others,'"  he  quoted,  while  he  was  un 
dressing, '"  himself  he  cannot  save.'  It  is  possible 
that  I  may  be  able  to  help  these  youngsters  out  of  the 
waters  whence  I  shall  never  emerge.  I  shall  be  like 
those  old  actors  who  can  teach  other  men  their  parts, 
though  they  can  never  go  on  the  stage  again.  Well, 
I  dare  say  the  work  isn't  wholly  worthless.  I  wonder 

212 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

what  Agatha  would  say  to  it  ?  I  wonder  what  she'd 
think  if  she  knew  I  had  passed  the  evening  drilling  a 
school-girl  and  an  errand-boy  in  the  elements?  It 
isn't  what  we  had  planned  for  the  end  of  November, 
but  I've  drawn  the  wine  and  I  must  drink  it.  My 
only  hope  now  is  in  being  no  more  of  a  coward  than  I 
can  help.  It  is  honor  rooted  in  dishonor,  but  it  is  still 
honor  of  its  kind." 

So  his  thoughts  wandered  away  from  the  simple 
events  of  the  evening,  and  he  went  to  bed  still  with 
out  seeing  the  significance  to  himself  of  what  he  had 
begun  to  do. 


XIX 

'T'S    simply    shameful    on    Agatha's 
part,"     Persis      said,     indignantly. 
"She's   making  him  feel  that  she's 
in  love  with   him,  and,  worse  than 
all,  she's  capable  of  marrying  him." 
"And  why  shouldn't    she    marry 
him?"  the  professor  asked. 

"Because  she  doesn't  care  that  about  him,"  Persis 
answered,  snapping  her  fingers  into  the  air,  with  a 
wholly  dramatic  gesture. 

She  was  sitting  on  a  footstool  beside  her  uncle's 
chair,  in  an  attitude  Mrs.  Wollaston  would  have  re 
buked  gently  if  she  had  been  there  to  see.  It  was  late 
in  the  afternoon,  and  the  light  outside  had  that  golden 
quality  peculiar  to  the  season  when  the  days  are 
perceptibly  growing  long.  It  was  only  the  end  of 
March,  but  it  had  been  a  mild  March;  the  grass  and 
trees  on  the  Common  were  already  putting  on  the  look 
of  life  that  comes  just  before  the  actual  spring,  and 
Miss  Blight  had  announced  the  passage  of  the  earliest 
birds.  It  was  not  cold,  but  the  professor  loved  his 
fire.  He  sat  toasting  his  feet,  with  his  big  volume 
closed  in  his  lap,  while  he  listened  to  Persis  pouring 
out  her  indignant  heart.  During  the  winter  they  had 
had  many  intimate  talks,  when  Mrs.  Wollaston  was 
out  of  the  way.  The  old  man  was  awakening  to  the 

214 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

fact  that  his  little  Persis  was  no  longer  quite  a  child. 
Bit  by  bit  he  allowed  her  to  creep  into  his  confidence 
and  suffered  himself  to  be  admitted  into  hers.  There 
was  a  tacit  understanding  that  the  new  relationship 
was  entirely  between  themselves.  Mrs.  Wollaston 
was  still  strict  as  to  the  subjects  on  which  Persis  could 
speak  or  be  spoken  to,  and  neither  had  the  courage  to 
risk  her  disapproval.  They  excluded  her,  therefore, 
by  a  conspiracy  of  silence.  When  she  was  at  the 
dressmaker's  or  at  church  Persis  took  advantage  of 
the  opportunity  thus  afforded  to  curl  herself  down 
beside  her  uncle's  arm-chair  and  chatter  without  re 
serve.  To  the  old  man  this  semi  -  clandestine  inti 
macy  gave  not  only  a  sweetness  to  the  day's  routine, 
but  a  certain  satisfaction  in  "scoring  over  Fanny." 

"She  doesn't  care  that  for  him,"  Persis  repeated, 
"  and  she's  making  him  think  she  does.  If  he  were  to 
propose  to  her  I'm  positive  she'd  take  him." 

"Well?     As  long  as  he  cares  enough  for  two — " 

"Oh,  but  he  doesn't,"  she  said,  quickly.  "That's 
another  thing  they  don't  see,  and  it  makes  it  worse. 
Paul  has  changed  towards  Agatha  —  ever  since  the 
trouble  about  poor  Mr.  Muir.  Agatha  doesn't  know  it, 
and  Paul  doesn't  know  it  himself.  Cousin  Abby  Leg- 
gett  and  Cousin  Mary  Dunster  are  so  bound  to  bring 
the  match  about  that  they  don't  give  either  of  them  a 
chance  to  know  their  own  minds.  They  all  think 
Paul  is  crazy  about  her — " 

"And  how  do  you  know  he  isn't?" 

"  I  can  tell,"  she  cried,  with  strong  emphasis  on  the 
last  word.  "  I  can  tell  by  what  he  says  to  me  about 
her.  He  admires  her  because  she's  got  that  air  of 
race  and  distinction.  Before  she  was  engaged  to  Mr. 

215 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

Muir  he  was  wild  about  her,  and  he  thinks  he  is  so 
still.  He  thinks  he  is  because  he  thinks  he  ought  to 
be,  and  so  he  thinks  he  must  be;  but  I  can  see  he 
isn't." 

"You're  uncommonly  perspicacious." 

"  So  I  am,"  she  said,  complacently.  "  I  can  always 
see  round  a  corner  when  other  girls  can't  see  straight 
before.  I've  watched  Paul's  mind  change  ever  since 
the  autumn,  and  I  know  Agatha  isn't  any  longer  the 
ideal  to  him  that  she  used  to  be.  Only  the  other  day 
he  and  I  were  talking  about  Mr.  Muir,  and  he  said — 
and  these  were  his  very  words,  Uncle  Hector — 'If  I 
were  a  woman,'  he  said,  'and  I  loved  a  man,  I'll  be 
hanged  if  I  wouldn't  stick  to  him  whatever  he  did.' 
And  he  said  this,  too :  he  said, '  I  don't  believe  a  wom 
an  has  it  in  her  to  love  a  man  if  she  isn't  ready  to  go 
under  with  him ' ;  and  I  agree  with  him,"  the  girl  add 
ed,  vehemently.  "As  I  say,  he  admires  her;  but  he 
has  no  sense  of  conviction  for  her  any  more  than  she 
has  for  him." 

"I  don't  see  what  difference  that  makes  so  long  as 
it  would  be  a  good  match." 

"  Match!"  Persis  cried,  scornfully.  "  I  should  think 
it  would  be  a  match — a  regular  shooting-match!  Be 
fore  they  were  married  six  months  they'd  be  ready 
to  kill  each  other.  Those  two  are  no  more  suited  to 
live  together  than  Catherine  the  Second  and  Napo 
leon  the  Great.  It  would  be  the  old  story  of  an  in 
vincible  power  coming  in  contact  with  an  immovable 
substance.  Agatha  would  have  yielded  to  Mr.  Muir — 
he  had  that  careless  air  of  strength  that  pleases  her; 
but  she'd  want  to  break  Paul  Dunster  on  her  wheel." 

"Then  why  not  let  her?" 
216 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"Because  she  couldn't;  because  Paul  wouldn't  be 
broken;  because  he'd  insist  on  being  master,  as  he 
ought  to  be.  The  only  wife  for  Paul  is  the  woman 
who'd  put  him  first,  who'd  hold  his  opinions  and  con 
sider  his  comfort  and  enter  into  his  life  and  adapt  her 
self  to  him  in  every  way,  as  such  a  man  has  a  right  to 
expect.  Agatha  would  want  to  drag  him  along  in 
her  train.  He'd  never  be  anything  more  to  her  than 
one  of  a  dozen  men — not  if  she  married  him  ten  times 
over.  It  would  be  wicked.  He's  too  good  to  be 
treated  like  that,  especially  when  he  doesn't  under 
stand  his  own  state  of  mind." 

"Why  don't  you  warn  him?"  the  professor  asked, 
dryly. 

The  girl  laughed  disdainfully. 

"  What  has  it  to  do  with  me?  I  don't  care — except 
in  a  very  general  way.  I  hate  to  see  people  made  un 
happy,  that's  all.  And  I  hate  to  see  two  old  women 
like  Cousin  Abby  Leggett  and  Cousin  Mary  Dun- 
ster — " 

"Careful,  careful,"  he  interrupted.  "Your  aunt 
will  be  coming  in  soon." 

"Well,  she's  not  in  now  and  I  will  say  it.  They've 
had  experience  enough  to  have  a  great  deal  more 
sense.  They're  old  enough,  goodness  only  knows. 
They  want  Paul  and  Agatha  to  be  happy,  but  they 
want  them  to  be  happy  in  just  their  way  and  no 
other.  It  makes  me  perfectly  furious.  Agatha  is 
only  playing  into  their  hand  because  she  has  nothing 
else  to  do.  If  any  one  were  to  come  along  who 
pleased  her  better  she'd  throw  Paul  Dunster  aside 
with  no  more  compunction  than  if  he  were  a  coat  that 
didn't  fit.  I  know  her.  Ever  since  Mr.  Muir  went 

217 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

she's  been  as  devoid  of  conscience  as  she's  been  of 
heart.  It's  a  curious  thing  that  she  should  have 
turned  out  that  way  while  he's  been  doing  so  much 
good — " 

"Ah?"  the  old  man  interrupted.  "What  do  you 
know  about  him?" 

"I  know  a  good  deal,"  she  answered,  with  a  sud 
den  change  of  tone. 

"Ah?" 

"  I  always  meant  to  tell  you,"  she  continued,  with 
some  hesitation.  "I  know  you  and  Aunt  Fanny 
won't  approve — " 

"You  may  be  sure  we  won't." 

"But  I've  done  it;  and  when  Aunt  Fanny  finds  it 
out  she  can  just  say  what  she  likes  and  I'll  bear  it." 

"That's  kind  of  you.     But  what  have  you  done?" 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you  first  as  last." 

"It  seems  to  me  you  make  it  last." 

"I've  seen  Mr.  Muir.  I've  seen  him  on  an  average 
about  once  a  week  since  Christmas." 

"And  you've  deceived  us?" 

"I  haven't  meant  to  deceive  you.  I  only  didn't 
say  anything  about  it.  And  I've  done  worse  than 
that.  You'd  better  know  it  all  at  once.  I've  taken 
Mrs.  Brooks  flowers  to  put  in  his  room  and  books  to 
lend  him  and  jelly  for  his  supper  and — " 

"Oh,  Lord!  Oh,  Lord!  What  a  disgrace!  The 
man  will  think  you're  making  love  to  him." 

"He  doesn't  think  anything  about  it,  except  that 
he  knows  I  go  back  and  forward  to  the  house." 

"The  house!     What  house?" 

"Mrs.  Brooks's.  It's  in  Roxbury.  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it.  But,  Uncle  Hector,  dear  Uncle  Hector, 

218 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

please  don't  tell  Aunt  Fanny — till — till — till  there's  a 
more  convenient  opportunity.  She'd  stop  me  from 
going—" 

"And  so  shall  I,  miss." 

"Yes,  but  I  could  disobey  you — that  is,  if  I  told 
you  about  it  afterwards;  whereas,  I  couldn't  disobey 
her.  You  see,  it  was  this  way.  It  was  an  accident. 
One  day  last  autumn,  not  long  after  the  trouble,  I 
was  talking  to  Paul  about  Mr.  Muir  and  that  poor 
young  Charterhouse  and  clothes  and  one  thing  and 
another,  and  Paul  said  there  was  a  very  good  dress 
maker  over  in  Roxbury — in  Greenland  Park — and  not 
dear." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  I  went  to  see  her,  and  she  made  me  this." 
She  held  up  a  bit  of  her  skirt  for  illustration. 

"Is  that  all?" 

"No;  she  made  me  the  tailor  suit  you  liked  and — " 

"I  don't  care  what  she  made  you.  Tell  me  what 
happened." 

"Nothing  happened;  only  one  day,  when  I'd  gone 
to  be  fitted,  I  saw  Mr.  Muir  just  by  chance." 

"What  sort  of  chance?  You  knew  he  lived  there, 
I  suppose?" 

"Yes;  because  Mrs.  Brooks  talked  about  him  all 
the  time,  and  Paul  had  given  me  one  or  two  new 
books  on  English  subjects  that  he  thought  he'd  like 
to  see.  Mrs.  Brooks  was  to  lend  them  casually  to 
Mr.  Charterhouse.  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it  at 
all.  They  only  thought  that  through  Mr.  Charter 
house — " 

"The  books  would  filter  along  to  Muir.  I  should 
think  Dunster  would  be  ashamed  of  himself." 

219 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"Oh,  so  he  is!  That  is,"  the  girl  corrected,  "he 
has  no  sympathy  with  Mr.  Muir.  He  doesn't  like 
him.  He  only  calls  him  'poor  devil,'  and  thinks  he 
has  tried  his  best  to  atone  for  what  he  did.  And  so 
he  has,  Uncle  Hector.  If  you  only  knew  the  good 
he's  doing!" 

"Hmph!     What  sort  of  good?" 

"Just  the  sort  that  you'd  approve  of." 

"Don't  drag  "me  into  it,  miss.  Tell  me  about  it 
first." 

"Well,  you  must  know,  Uncle  Hector,  that  out  in 
Roxbury  there  are  a  great  many  people  of  the  very 
kind  you'd  like — " 

"Leave  me  out,  please." 

"I  mean,"  she  pursued,  "they're  not  poor  and  yet 
not  rich.  They  earn  good  livings  and  are  comfortable. 
But  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  so  Mrs.  Brooks  says,  the 
boys  and  girls  have  to  leave  school  just  at  the  time 
when  they're  learning  how  to  study.  They  get 
through  the  worst  of  the  drudgery  and  reach  the  point 
where  the  mind  begins  to  be  formed — Mr.  Muir  told 
me  this — and  then  it's  all  over.  They've  got  to  go 
into  shops  and  offices  and  work." 

"So  they  should." 

"Yes;  that's  what  they  all  say.  But  still  there  are 
always  some  who'd  like  to  go  on  and  study  longer. 
Mrs.  Brooks  says  it  makes  all  the  difference  with  what 
they  can  do  in  after-life.  She  says  that  many  a  man 
who  could  have  made  something  of  himself  never  gets 
further  than  the  counter  with  fifteen  dollars  a  week 
just  because  his  training  had  to  stop  by  the  time  he 
was  seventeen.  And,  oh,  Uncle  Hector,  you've  no 
idea  how  bright  and  clever  and  in  earnest  lots  of  those 

220 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

young  people  out  in  Roxbury  are!  They're  just  as 
alive  as  they  can  be.  I've  made  friends  with  some  of 
them — Lucy  Brooks  and  Daisy  Pine,  for  instance — 
and  so  I  know.  They  dress  well  and  talk  well,  and 
are  interested  in  everything  from  Eleanora  Duse  to  the 
discovery  of  radium — just  like  you,  Uncle  Hector. 
Only  their  chance  stops  precisely  when  the  mind  is 
opening — that's  what  Mr.  Muir  says.  They're  trained 
just  to  the  point  where  training  begins  to  be  worth 
while,  and  then  it's  all  over  and  they  lose  the  good  of 
what's  gone  before.  The  boys  go  into  offices  and  the 
girls  do  type-writing  or  keep  books,  and,  little  by  little, 
Mr.  Muir  says,  the  mind  closes  again.  Of  course, 
lots  of  them  don't  care.  But  there  are  always  some 
who  wish  they  could  have  gone  to  Harvard  or  Rad- 
cliffe  and  prepared  themselves  for  a  step  higher." 

"But  what's  all  this  rigmarole  got  to  do  with  the 
deceit  you've  practised  on  your  poor  aunt  Fanny  and 
me?" 

"I  should  think  it  would  excuse  it,  Uncle  Hector — 
or  some  of  it,  at  least.  When  I  saw  Mr.  Muir  giving 
himself  up  to  help  these  young  people  just  when  they 
needed  the  kind  of  help  that  only  a  born  teacher  could 
give  them,  well — then — " 

"Well — then — what?     Go  on." 

"If  you're  going  to  be  cross  with  me,  I  can't." 

"I'm  not  cross;  I'm  only  heart-broken,  Persis,  over 
your  double  conduct.  We  must  keep  it  from  your 
aunt,  or  I  don't  know  what  you'll  get.  Well,  what 
happened  next?" 

"Nothing,  only  that  I  grew  interested  and  I 
couldn't  help  admiring  Mr.  Muir.  He's  got  fifteen  or 
twenty  of  these  young  people  around  him,  and  you 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

can't  imagine  the  help  he's  giving  them.     There's 
that  Mr.  Charterhouse,  for  example.     He  was  taken 
on  by  a  place  in  Atlantic  Avenue  just  as  an  errand 
boy,  and  now  he's  their  foreign  correspondent  at  ever 
so  big  a  salary.     Mr.  Muir  did  that  just  by  teaching 
him  to  write  easily  in  commercial  French.     Mr.  Char 
terhouse  told  me  so.     And  there's  Lucy  Brooks  and 
Daisy  Pine,  who  are   going  to  be  school  -  teachers. 
Mr.  Muir  is  coaching  them,  and  they're  simply  crazy 
about  their  work  and  him.     And  there  are  ever  so 
many  others.     Most  of  them  had  left  school  already, 
but  now  they  are  studying  with  him  at  nights;  and 
I  do  think,  Uncle  Hector,  that  it's  perfectly  lovely." 
"And  so  you've  been  taking  him  flowers  and  jelly?" 
"I  took  them  to  Mrs.  Brooks.     Of  course  I  knew 
he'd  get  the  benefit  of  them,  because  he's  her  idol. 
And  besides  that — I  might  just  as  well  tell  you — " 
"Just  as  well.     Let  me  hear  the  worst." 
"I've  been  reading  German  with  Daisy  Pine,  and 
we've  helped  each  other  more  than  you  can  fancy. 
I've  gone  over  there  twice  a  week  when  you  and  Aunt 
Fanny  have  thought  I  was  out  with  the  girls." 
"And  you've  seen  Muir  every  time,  I  suppose?" 
"  No;  only  when  he's  come  in  to  show  Daisy  and  me 
what  to  do.     German  is  the  only  thing  I  know  well 
enough  to  help  in,  and  it  '11  give  her  a  much  better 
position  if  she  knows  it  thoroughly." 

"And  what  sort  of  a  position  do  you  think  you've 
been  getting  for  yourself,  madam?" 

"I  suppose  a  pretty  bad  one.  But  I  don't  care, 
Uncle  Hector.  I  wanted  to  do  it,  and  Paul  knew 
about  it  all  the  time.  He's  been  ever  so  nice  to  Mr. 
Muir,  in  a  way  no  one  suspects.  He  wrote  to  the 

222 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

National  people  and  told  them  about  the  work  at 
Roxbury  and  got  their  sympathy,  and  they  wrote  to 
Mr.  Muir  asking  for  articles,  and  they've  sent  him 
books  to  review  and  a  lot  of  things.  That  was  his 
article  on  The  Ben  Jonson  Revival,  in  the  last  num 
ber.  And  besides  that,  Blinn  &  Co. — " 

"Pooh!     Pooh!     Blinn  &  Co.!" 

"Yes,  Blinn  &  Co.,  Uncle  Hector,  have  given  him 
some  of  their  educational  text-books  to  edit,  and  he's 
making  a  lot  of  money  out  of  them." 

"That's  nothing  but  pickings.  He's  only  to  get 
ten  per  cent,  on —  But,  tut,  tut,  I  don't  know  any 
thing  about  it." 

He  stopped  abruptly,  almost  confusedly.  Persis 
looked  at  him  curiously  in  sudden  silence. 

"Uncle  Hector,"  she  said,  at  last,  speaking  slowly 
and  in  another  tone,  "do  you  know  what  I  think?" 

"No,  my  dear,  and  I  don't  want  to  know." 

"I  think,"  she  went  on,  looking  at  him  fixedly, 
"that  Blinn  &  Co.  gave  him  the  work  because  you — " 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  unusual  agility,  letting 
the  big  volume  fall  to  the  floor. 

"Here's  your  aunt,"  he  said,  in  a  loud  whisper  of 
alarm.  "She's  at  the  door." 

"But  you  won't  tell  her  anything  I've  said,"  the 
girl  pleaded,  as  she,  too,  rose. 

"I'll  spare  her  that.     It  would  kill  her." 

"And  I  can  go  on  reading  German  with  Daisy 
Pine?" 

"No — no!     Not  unless  you  disobey  me.     Sh!" 

"Sh— h!" 

So  they  were  both  standing  in  silence  when  Mrs. 
Wollaston  lilted  in. 

223 


XX 

•  HE  next  morning  Persis  was  sent  with 
a  message  to  Agatha  from  Mr.  Wollas- 
ton.  She  was  to  say  that  he  was  con 
fined  to  the  house  with  a  cold,  that  in 
the  afternoon  Mrs.  Wollaston  would 
be  at  her  Bee,  that  Persis  would  be 
"gadding"  and  he  himself  left  alone;  that  any  stray 
crumbs  from  the  rich  table  of  Miss  Royal's  society 
would,  therefore,  be  thankfully  accepted. 

He  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  with  a  rug  over  his  knees, 
when  she  arrived  about  four.  He  did  not  get  up  to 
greet  her,  but  with  his  quick,  shrewd  gaze  he  inspected 
her  as  she  came  down  the  room  towards  him.  It  was 
the  work  of  a  second,  but  the  result  was  the  confirma 
tion  of  what  he  had  already  observed.  Agatha  looked 
older — decidedly  older.  It  was  as  if  the  light  in  a 
cloudless  sky  was  no  longer  that  of  morning,  but  of 
early  afternoon.  Agatha  was  twenty-six,  but  she 
might  have  been  taken  for  thirty.  She  had  not  lost 
what  Persis  called  her  "air  of  race"  nor  a  shade  of 
her  distinction;  but  she  was  thinner,  her  expression 
colder,  her  general  bearing  prouder.  In  her  carriage 
she  was  more  self-possessed,  more  easy,  more  alert; 
what  the  professor  missed  in  her  was  the  old  sym 
pathy  which  had  always  put  them  in  immediate  touch 
with  each  other.  In  her  smile  there  was  affection,  but 

224 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

the  softness  of  other  days  was  gone.  In  her  grasp  of 
the  hand  there  was  cordiality,  but  a  cordiality  from 
principle  rather  than  the  heart.  In  the  slightly  ar 
tificial,  off-hand  tone  with  which  she  said  "How  do 
you  do?"  he  divined  the  woman  for  whom  one  person 
had  become  almost  like  another.  He  knew  there  was 
no  special  barrier  between  him  and  her;  there  was 
only  a  barrier  between  her  and  every  one.  He  had 
seen  her  raise  it.  Ever  since  the  day  when  she  had 
swept  out  of  that  room,  with  Anthony  Muir's  confession 
branded  on  her  heart,  he  had  watched  her  build  her 
defences  against  the  world.  With  her  humiliation 
she  had  retired  behind  them.  She  had  tried  not  only 
to  shut  out  sympathy,  but  to  hide  the  very  fact  that 
she  was  suffering.  She  had  wanted  neither  friend, 
confidant,  nor  counsellor.  In  her  nature  there  were 
reserves  of  strength,  and  she  had  had  nothing  to  do 
but  tax  them.  She  had  done  so  with  valiant  reckless 
ness,  straining  her  nerves  and  breaking  her  heart  with 
the  indifference  of  one  who  would  never  again  have 
use  for  either.  She  avoided  the  bravado  of  defiance 
as  dexterously  as  she  concealed  the  futility  of  grief. 
As  nearly  as  might  be  she  made  Anthony  Muir's 
standard  of  acting  her  own.  She  appeared  simple 
and  natural,  with  that  perfection  of  bearing  which 
hides  effort.  After  a  few  days  of  decorous  semi- 
seclusion  she  appeared  one  afternoon  among  some 
dozen  or  twenty  people  at  Mrs.  Arlington  Revere's. 
Any  one  could  see  that  she  had  passed  through  an  un 
usual  experience — she  was  paler,  quieter,  and  more 
pensive.  But  that  was  all.  If  she  did  not  talk  gayly, 
at  least  she  talked  readily  and  without  emotion.  It 
was  the  very  hour  at  which  Anthony  Muir  was  leav- 
15  225 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

ing  Westmorland  Hall  and  going  out  of  the  old  life 
forever.  From  his  condition  of  bitterness  and  loneli 
ness  he  pictured  hers.  He  would  have  been  amazed, 
could  the  curtain  of  separation  have  been  lifted,  to 
have  seen  her  sitting  with  teacup  in  hand,  elegant, 
well  poised,  quietly  listening  to  Miss  Louisa  Wim 
ble's  plans  for  her  brother's  sabbatical  year  abroad. 

During  the  winter  Agatha  had  imposed  on  nearly 
every  one.  She  played  her  part  so  well  as  to  be 
taken  for  a  woman  without  heart.  Cousin  Abby 
Leggett  was  astonished  at  her  iron  nerve;  Persis  was 
puzzled  by  her  lack  of  interest  in  the  fate  of  Anthony 
Muir;  Mrs.  Wollaston  was  grieved  by  her  want  of  sen 
timent.  It  was  generally  felt  that  she  never  could 
have  loved  Muir  at  all,  otherwise  she  could  not  have 
carried  herself  so  calmly.  There  was,  however,  one 
old  man  whose  experience  of  the  heroines  of  mediaeval 
literature  had  taught  him  to  read  the  signs  of  a  wom 
an's  heart  anywhere  rather  than  in  what  meets  the 
eye.  To  Agatha's  greeting  now  he  responded  quer 
ulously. 

"How  do  I  do?  What's  that  to  you?  I  might 
be  in  extremis  and  you  wouldn't  tap  at  the  door 
to  inquire.  How  long  is  it  since  you've  been 
here?" 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me,"  she  cried,  sinking  into  an  arm 
chair,  where  she  sat  with  her  hands  in  her  muff.  In 
her  close-fitting  velvet,  her  small  spring  sables  and 
long -plumed  hat  she  had  an  air  of  well-appointed 
self -sufficiency,  equal  to  any  future  assaults  of  fate. 
"Don't  ask  me,"  she  repeated.  "I'm  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  myself.  The  fact  is,  I'm  so  busy.  I've 
dined  out  three  times  this  week  already,  and  to-night 

226 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

I'm  going  to  the  theatre.  But  if  I'd  known  you  want 
ed  to  see  me — " 

"I  didn't — at  least,  not  till  now.  My  first  inten 
tion  was  not  to  see  you  even  if  you  came;  but  on  sec 
ond  thoughts  it  seemed  to  me  better  to  have  it  out 
with  you  rather  than  to  go  on  cherishing  ill-feeling. 
Fanny  will  feel  pretty  badly  when  she  hears  of  it." 

"Hears  of  what,  Mr.  Wollaston?  I  don't  think  I 
know  what  you  mean." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  It  doesn't  seem  right  to  me 
that  I  should  be  left  to  learn  by  the  merest  chance — 
by  the  tongue  of  gossip,  I  might  say — that  a  girl 
whom  I've  brought  up,  so  to  speak,  is  going  to  be 
married — " 

"Oh,  but  I'm  not — not  yet,"  Agatha  cried,  startled 
into  half-revealing  her  intentions. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  yet?  If  you're  not  mar 
ried  yet,  yet  you  are  engaged,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  no.     I  assure  you — " 

"You're  not  engaged  to  Paul  Dunster?" 

"No,  Mr.  Wollaston;  no,  no.     I  assure  you — " 

"  You  needn't  assure  me.  If  you're  not  you  ought 
to  be.  I  hear  you're  crazy  about  him." 

"That's  putting  it  rather  strongly,"  she  protested, 
with  a  smile. 

"And  I  hoped  you  were.  So  did  Fanny.  She'll 
be  as  disappointed  as  I  am  to  hear  it  isn't  settled. 
How  it  does  hang  fire,  to  be  sure!  In  my  time  it 
would  have  been  done  long  ago,  and  you'd  have  been 
keeping  house  by  now." 

The  smile  faded  partially  from  Agatha's  lips  and 
her  brow  contracted  into  an  expression  of  perplexity. 

"But,  Mr.  Wollaston,"  she  began,  her  eyes  fixed 
227 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

on  a  bunch  of  roses  in  the  old-fashioned  carpet, 
"would  you  advise  me — would  you  really  advise 
me — " 

"Advise  you!"  the  old  man  cried,  starting  forward 
in  his  chair.  "  My  dear,  we're  praying  for  it.  There's 
Fanny  and  Abby  Leggett  and  Mary  Dunster  and  the 
Lord  knows  how  many  more  old  women  in  the  family 
have  been  down  on  their  bended  knees  about  it  for 
the  last  three  years.  You've  got  to  do  it  now,  if  it's 
only  for  the  sake  of  keeping  up  their  faith  in  the 
efficacy  of  intercession." 

"Yes,  but  you — "  she  began  again. 

"Me!  My  dear,  any  one  with  half  an  eye  can  see 
that  Paul  Dunster  was  sent  into  this  world  on  purpose 
to  be  your  husband.  He's  your  born  affinity.  If 
ever  there  was  a  case  of  a  marriage  made  in  heaven 
it's  that  one.  You  can  see  now  why  we  were  so  upset 
when  you  were  engaged  to  Muir." 

"Oh,  please,"  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  start,  as  if 
he  had  touched  a  wound. 

"Well,  I  won't,  if  you  don't  like  to  talk  about  it. 
But  still  I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't — just  you  and 
I,  you  know.  But  to  come  back  to  Paul  Dunster.  I 
can  see  you  married  now.  I  can  see  how  happy  you'd 
be.  Why,  you're  cut  out  to  be  the  wife  for  him.  It 
isn't  every  one  would  do  for  Paul.  It  isn't  every  one 
who'd  be  adaptable  enough." 

"Oh,  as  for  that,"  she  laughed,  nervously,  "I'm 
not  sure — " 

"Where  he'd  find  any  one  equal  to  you,"the  old  man 
dashed  in.  "That's  what  I  say.  That's  what  Fanny 
says.  Any  one  can  see  that  you're  as  adaptable  as 
a  willow  wand.  That's  just  where  you'd  suit  Paul. 

228 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

He's  one  of  those  square-cut,  wooden-natured  chaps 
that  are  exactly  thus  and  so  and  can't  be  any  other 
way.  You  can  no  more  expect  to  mould  him  by  in 
fluence  than  you  can  hope  to  touch  the  heart  of  a 
stone  god  by  prayer.  But  you  wouldn't  want  to  do 
that.  You  know  Paul  just  as  well  as  we  do.  Once 
you'd  taken  him  as  your  master  you'd  submit  to  him 
as  your  master — " 

"Oh,  but  Mr.  Wollaston,"  she  ventured,  "do  you 
think  that  in  marriage  there  should  be  any  question 
of  submission  on  the  one  side  or — ?" 

"  I'm  not  talking  of  marriage  in  general,  but  of  your 
marriage  to  Paul.  Marriage  in  general  may  be  one 
thing,  but  marriage  in  particular  is  pretty  sure  to  be 
another.  And  what  Paul  wants  is  a  wife  who'd  ac 
cept  his  opinions  as  you  would,  who'd  adopt  his  hab 
its  as  you  would,  who'd  make  his  comfort  the  first 
object  of  her  life  and  take  his  wish  as  her  law.  That's 
the  sort  of  wife  for  Paul,  and  we've  all  picked  you  out 
for  it.  He'd  be  crazy  if  he  had  any  other  kind — he's 
so  dogged  and  pugnacious  and  unmalleable.  I  don't 
know  anybody  but  you  who  could  fill  the  position, 
and  when  I  say  so  I'm  paying  you  a  very  high  com 
pliment." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  dryly,  still  looking  down 
at  the  roses.  The  smile,  which  had  never  quite  left 
her  lips,  quivered  as  if  uncertain  whether  to  dissolve 
into  tears  or  laughter. 

"I  can  see  it.  I  can  see  it,"  he  went  on,  enthusi 
astically.  "You'd  be  done  with  all  this  going  to 
theatres  and  out  to  dine.  Paul  wouldn't  like  that  at 
all.  It  isn't  his  style.  You'd  entertain  the  freshmen 
in  batches  every  autumn,  if  he's  appointed  to  look 

229 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

after  them,  as  I  suppose  he'll  be.  You'd  nurse  them 
out  of  their  callowness  and  turn  them  loose  upon  the 
world.  After  that  your  mere  social  life  would  be  at 
an  end.  Paul  wouldn't  want  you  to  waste  your  time 
on  it.  Your  existence  would  become  as  placid  as  if 
you  were  locked  in  a  box.  You'd  read  with  him  and 
work  with  him  and  copy  for  him,  perhaps,  and  make 
yourself  useful  in  a  way  you  wouldn't  get  a  chance 
of  doing  with  nine  husbands  out  of  ten.  Paul  would 
expect  it  of  you,  and  you'd  be  proud  to  do  it.  Lord, 
if  I'd  had  a  wife  like  that !  If  I  were  you  I'm  not  sure 
that  I  shouldn't  take  a  course  in  stenography  or  type 
writing  and  begin  at  once.  It  would  be  of  the  great 
est  help  in  the  world  to  Paul,  and  would  give  you 
something  to  fill  up  your  time." 

He  stopped  to  cough,  and  she  took  advantage  of 
the  opportunity  to  speak. 

"  But  wouldn't  it  be  rather  soon  to  begin  such  active 
preparations  when  he  hasn't  asked  me  to  marry  him 
yet?" 

"Oh,  that's  nothing!"  he  returned,  when  he  had 
found  his  voice  again.  "Fanny  had  our  house  fur 
nished — in  her  mind's  eye,  that  is — and  had  begun 
giving  dinner-parties  long  before  I  proposed  to  her. 
When  you  know  a  thing  is  sure,  it's  as  good  as  done." 

"But  I  don't  know  that  it  is  sure." 

"In  any  case  you  can  be  getting  yourself  ready. 
There's  no  harm  in  that.  You  can  be  thinking  it 
over  and  studying  his  tastes  beforehand  and  trying 
your  best  to  please  him,  so  that  when  the  time  comes 
he  may  have  as  little  fault  to  find  as  possible.  You're 
a  sensible  girl,  Agatha.  I've  always  said  that  of  you; 
and  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  I've  admired  the  way 

230 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

you  carried  yourself  in  the  affair  with  poor  young 
Muir.  Tut,  tut!"  he  exclaimed,  as  she  started  again 
with  a  quick  catch  in  her  breath  as  if  of  sudden  pain. 
"I'm  not  going  to  talk  about  it.  I'm  only  going  to 
say  how  much  I  admired  you.  I've  been  proud  of 
you.  Everybody  has  seen  that  you're  not  a  girl  with 
whom  mere  sentiment  counts  for  much.  It's  been 
splendid.  Now  some  women  would  have  had  the 
foolish  idea  of  sticking  to  a  fallen  man  just  out  of 
loyalty.  As  if  loyalty  was  any  good  in  a  case  like 
that.  I  believe  that  if  the  thing  had  happened  to 
me — and  there  was  no  reason  why  it  shouldn't  have 
happened  to  me,  for,  the  Lord  knows,  I  confiscated 
enough  of  other  men's  ideas  in  my  earlier  books — 
but  if  the  thing  had  happened  to  me  I  believe  Fanny 
would  have  stuck  to  me  to  the  bitter  end.  And  it 
wouldn't  have  done  me  any  good — except  in  the  way 
of  consolation.  But  what's  consolation  to  a  ruined 
man?  Besides,  a  fellow  doesn't  deserve  consolation 
when  he's  done  what  Muir  did.  Now,  keep  quiet — 
keep  quiet.  I'm  not  going  to  say  a  word  about  him. 
And  if  I  did,  what  harm?  Haven't  I  been  like  a 
father  to  you?  Is  there  anybody  who  has  a  better 
right  to  speak  to  you  than  I?  Tell  me  that,  now." 

She  shook  her  head,  but  did  not  raise  her  eyes. 
The  smile  had  wholly  faded,  and  she  bit  her  lip  in  the 
effort  to  maintain  her  self-control. 

"I'm  not  going  to  talk  about  Muir,"  he  went  on. 
"  I  don't  want  to.  I've  heard  things  about  him  that 
show  how  right  you  were  to  act  just  as  you  did." 

"Mr.  Wollaston,  please!"  she  implored,  lifting  her 
eyes  to  him,  beseechingly. 

"  There,  there,  my  dear.  It's  all  over.  That's  the 
231 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

last  thing  I  shall  say  about  him.  As  if  it  wasn't  weak 
ness  enough  for  a  young  man  to  confess  his  crime  and 
expiate  it  —  when,  I  dare  say,  there  wouldn't  have 
been  any  need  of  his  doing  it — he's  gone  down  further 
than  I  could  have  supposed.  I'll  not  tell  you  about 
it,  because  it  would  only  make  your  heart  ache." 

In  spite  of  herself  she  could  not  keep  out  of  her  eyes 
and  features  an  expression  of  silent  questioning. 

"  There  was  a  boy  in  college  last  year,"  the  old  man 
pursued — "a  very  bad  boy.  He'd  stolen  money  and 
had  to  leave.  Muir  was  his  adviser  and  brought  him 
to  atonement.  That  man  seems  to  have  had  atone 
ment  on  the  brain.  Well,  we  got  the  boy  off  with 
out  the  imprisonment  he  deserved.  He  disappeared. 
Shortly  after  that  he  gets  a  job  as  errand-boy  in  At 
lantic  Avenue.  What  do  you  think  our  Mr.  Muir 
does,  the  minute  he  leaves  Harvard  himself?  Well, 
I'd  better  not  tell  you.  Better  throw  over  the  whole 
business  the  cloak  of  charity." 

"You  can  tell  me — now,"  Agatha  gasped. 

"  Mr.  Muir,  if  you'll  believe  it,  goes  straight  to  that 
wicked  boy,  associates  with  him,  lives  in  the  same 
house  with  him,  teaches  him  French  and  Heaven  only 
knows  what  else,  and  enables  this  fellow — who'd  al 
ready  stolen  money,  mind  you — to  pick  up  again  and 
get  a  better  position.  So  to-day  there's  my  lord  boy, 
with  something  like  thirty  dollars  a  week,  holding  his 
head  up  and  smoking  his  cigarettes  at  ten  cents  a 
bunch,  just  as  if  he  had  graduated  cum  laude,  like 
you  or  me.  What  do  you  think  of  that,  now?" 

"If  the  boy  was  sorry — and  was  worthy — "  she 
began  to  stammer. 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there.  The  point  is  in 
232 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

the  extent  to  which  Muir  has  lowered  his  own  dig 
nity." 

"I  don't  quite  see  that,"  she  said,  with  difficulty. 
"  If  the  boy  was  worth  saving  it  seems  to  me  it  might 
have  been  a  fine  thing — " 

"Oh,  but  he's  done  worse  than  that,"  the  professor 
exclaimed,  in  a  large  tone.  "You  have  no  idea! 
You  ought  to  hear  Persis  talk  about  him.  There 
never  was  any  one  so  right  as  you  were.  The  man 
seems  to  have  forgotten  himself  entirely.  You'd 
hardly  believe  it.  He  hasn't  made  the  least  attempt 
to  rehabilitate  himself.  On  the  contrary,  he  lives  in 
the  most  modest  way — a  humble  way,  you  might 
even  say — and  what  do  you  think  he  does?" 

Again  Agatha  could  only  look  her  unspoken  inter 
rogation. 

"  He  —  coaches  —  young  —  people  —  for  —  noth 
ing,"  he  said,  with  slow  emphasis,  marking  off  each 
word  by  a  tap  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  "  He's  got 
round  him  a  lot  of  lads  and  girls  of  quite — quite — 
what  shall  I  say? — quite  modest,  not  to  say  subordi 
nate  station  in  life — and  he  makes  them  study  with 
him.  Can  you  think  of  it?  The  brilliant  Anthony 
Muir! — now  debasing  his  intellect  to  the  service  of 
quite — quite — simple  people,  and  doing  it  for  noth 
ing!" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  should  call  it  debasing,"  she 
said,  thoughtfully. 

"  What  other  word  would  you  apply?" 

"And — and — I  suppose  he  does  something  for  a 
living?" 

In  spite  of  all  her  efforts  she  could  not  stifle  her  in 
terest,  now  that  she  had  begun  to  speak  of  him. 

233 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"I  believe,"  the  professor  said,  indifferently — "I 
believe  he  has  some  small  means — a  mere  trifle.  Be 
sides  that,  Blinn  &  Co.  have  been  giving  him  some  of 
their  text-books  to  edit.  I  don't  know  how  they 
could  have  been  so  weak,  but  they've  done  it.  I 
believe  it  brings  him  in  something.  Then  he  writes 
for  the  National.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that.  The 
editor  sent  him  a  perfectly  ridiculous  letter,  I  believe ; 
told  him  he  had  done  his  best  to  expiate,  and  so 
forth  and  so  forth — you  know  the  sort  of  thing — and 
asked  him  to  contribute.  That  very  article  you  were 
admiring  so  the  last  time  you  were  here,  on  The 
Ben  Jonson  Revival,  was  written  by  nobody  less  than 
Anthony  Muir  himself." 

The  professor  paused  and  Agatha  made  no  re 
sponse.  There  was  a  long  silence,  which  the  old  man 
broke  by  inquiring  after  Abby  Leggett's  sciatica.  On 
the  subjects  they  had  been  discussing  he  thought  he 
had  said  enough  for  one  time.  Perhaps  Agatha 
thought  so,  too;  for  when,  a  little  later,  she  rose  to  go 
away  she  no  longer  had  that  air  of  perfect  self-com 
mand  which  had  been  so  marked  when  she  came  in. 


XXI 

|S  Agatha  walked  homeward,  one  of  the 
professor's  sentences  remained  espe 
cially  in  her  mind.  "You  ought  to 
hear  Persis  talk  about  him."  Then 
Persis  knew  what  she  did  not  know. 
Her  first  feeling  was  that  Persis  had 
taken  a  liberty.  What  right  had  she  to  follow  An 
thony  Muir  into  the  darkness  whither  he  had  retreat 
ed?  Why  track  him  down,  and  then  speak  ill  of 
him?  Why  not  let  his  fate  remain  a  mystery  like 
that  of  Louis  XVII.?  Surely,  if  it  belonged  to  any 
one  to  pursue  him  with  either  interest  or  ill-will,  it 
belonged  to  her,  Agatha  Royal,  who  had  been  so 
cruelly  humiliated  and  wronged.  If  she  could  let  him 
be,  Persis  might  well  do  the  same.  But  it  was  not 
like  Persis,  she  reflected  further,  to  be  vindictive. 
There  was  probably  some  other  motive,  which  she  did 
not  know.  Well,  it  made  no  difference.  It  was 
nothing  to  her.  She  would  not  think  about  it  any 
more.  It  was  the  plan  she  had  followed  during  the 
last  two  or  three  months,  and  she  had  acquired  a 
wonderful  command  over  her  thoughts.  At  first  her 
mind  could  dwell  on  nothing  but  him.  Sleeping  or 
waking,  alone  or  in  society,  he  had  been  present  to 
her  mental  vision.  She  had  banished  him  by  sheer 
force  of  will.  She  knew  he  was  not  gone,  but  at 

335 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

least  he  was  farther  off.  She  knew  her  love  was  not 
dead,  but  at  least  it  was  dulled  as  by  a  narcotic. 
She  had  conquered  it;  it  had  not  conquered  her;  "and 
if,"  she  reasoned — "if  I  have  done  so  much  in  five 
months,  what  may  I  not  do  in  ten  and  twenty  and 
forty  and  in  the  years  that  lie  before  me  ?  A  time  will 
come  when  I  shall  be  free  from  this  unworthy  obses 
sion  and  the  name  of  Anthony  Muir  will  stir  me  only 
as  the  wind  stirs  last  year's  leaves." 

She  commended  herself  for  her  strength  of  character. 
It  was  not  every  woman,  she  was  sure,  who,  out  of 
the  depths  of  suffering,  could  look  forward  to  winning 
such  a  victory  over  pain.  It  was  not  easy  even  for 
her,  but  she  could  do  it.  She  could  bear  what  was  to 
be  borne  for  the  moment,  in  the  certainty  that  time 
and  a  fuller  realization  of  Anthony  Muir's  baseness 
would  give  her  peace. 

And  how  base  he  had  been!  It  made  her  flush  to 
think  that  any  one  whom  she  had  allowed  to  come  so 
near  could  have  lied  to  her.  He  had  lied  to  her,  look 
ing  her  straight  in  the  eyes,  and  knowing  that  she 
would  take  his  word  against  that  of  the  whole  world. 
If  it  had  been  anything  but  lying!  She  could  have 
forgiven  a  more  gross,  a  mere  sensual  offence;  but  that 
deflection  of  the  moral  nature  which  makes  it  possible 
for  a  man  to  lie  she  could  not  forgive.  There  was  but 
one  thing  for  which  she  respected  him;  in  his  confes 
sion  he  had  made  no  excuses  nor  asked  for  pardon. 
He  had  dropped  like  a  bullet  in  the  sea  and  gone  out 
of  sight.  That  was  well  done,  and  for  her  the  only 
course  was  to  sail  on  and  forget  him. 

No,  she  could  not  forget  him;  of  course  not.  She 
realized  that  now,  as  she  walked  home  from  Mr. 

236 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

Wollaston's.  It  was  useless  to  try.  It  would  be  un 
natural  to  succeed.  What  she  could  do  was  to  re 
member  with  indifference — with  that  interested  in 
difference  which  we  give  to  those  with  whom  we  have 
once  been  intimate  and  for  whom  we  care  no  longer. 
We  like  to  hear  about  them,  and  to  know  what  new 
developments  have  come  into  their  lives;  but  they 
do  not  affect  us  any  more.  She  was  wrong,  perhaps, 
to  shrink  from  hearing  his  name ;  she  was  wrong  to  be 
unwilling  to  learn  what  he  was  doing.  If  in  the  deeps 
into  which  he  had  gone  down  he  was  not  wholly  lost, 
she  had  magnanimity  enough  to  be  glad — glad,  that 
is,  with  the  mingling  of  pity  and  disdain  we  feel  for 
those  who  have  injured  us,  but  whom  we  are  too 
generous  to  strike. 

As  for  herself,  she  would  marry  Paul  Dunster.  He 
loved  her,  and  she  respected  him.  These  reasons  were 
perhaps  not  strong  enough  if  there  were  no  others; 
but  there  were  others.  The  marriage  would  please 
every  one  who  cared  for  her  and  for  whom  she  cared. 
They  had  all  been  so  good  to  her! — Mr.  and  Mrs.Wollas- 
ton  and  Cousin  Abby  and  Mary  Dunster  and  all  the 
rest  of  their  little  circle.  She  would  marry  Paul  for 
their  sakes.  For  their  sakes,  too,  she  would  try  to 
humble  herself  and  make  him  just  such  a  wife  as  Mr. 
Wollaston  described.  She  knew  she  could  do  it  if  she 
tried;  and  perhaps,  after  all,  Paul  might  not  be  so  in 
flexible  in  marriage  as  he  seemed  in  friendship.  She 
would  do  it,  in  any  case.  She  had  no  one  to  think  of 
but  the  dear  friends  around,  who  had  loved  her  all 
her  life.  She  might  as  well  sacrifice  herself  for  them 
as  for  others.  Paul  loved  her,  at  least;  and  in  the 
spiritual  fatigue  of  the  effort  she  was  making  to  mas- 

237 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

ter  herself  it  seemed  good  to  creep  into  any  kind  of 
haven  where  there  was  a  chance  of  rest. 

She  was  unusually  gracious  to  him,  therefore,  when 
they  met  in  the  lobby  of  the  theatre  that  evening. 
It  was  true  that  he  seemed  shorter  than  ever  between 
two  tall  women  like  Cousin  Abby  and  herself ;  but  she 
knew  wives  who  were  taller  than  their  husbands  and 
who  were,  nevertheless,  quite  satisfied  with  their  lots. 
It  was  the  same  with  the  cast  in  his  eye — one  got 
used  to  it  and  liked  him  the  better  for  having  it. 
These  were  trifles,  she  said,  that  should  never  disturb 
a  woman  who  could  see  the  serious  side  of  things. 
Between  the  acts  she  had  further  reason  to  think  they 
might  have  exaggerated  the  severity  of  his  tempera 
ment.  He  was  actually  more  merciful  than  she  in  his 
judgment  on  Mrs.  Dane  and  her  defence.  Ordinarily 
it  was  the  reverse  when  moral  problems  came  up  for 
discussion  between  them.  It  was  not  the  moment 
to  go  into  the  subject  then;  so  she  said,  "We  must 
have  that  out  another  time." 

He  drove  home  with  them  from  the  play  and 
wished  them  good-night  at  the  door. 

"When  are  we  to  see  you  again?"  Miss  Leggett  in 
quired,  as  he  was  going.  She  had  observed  a  certain 
change  in  Agatha's  manner  towards  him,  and  she 
was  too  much  his  partisan  not  to  follow  the  advan 
tage  up. 

"Why  can't  you  come  and  lunch  with  us  to-mor 
row?"  Agatha  asked;  "and  afterwards  we  could  all  go 
together  to  see  the  exhibition  of  Shannon  portraits." 

"  I  can,"  he  answered.  "  I've  no  lectures  at  all  to 
morrow  afternoon." 

"He  means  it  this  time,"  Miss  Leggett  said  to  her- 
238 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

self,  "and  I  do  believe  she  means  it,  too.  It  will  be 
now  or  never." 

When,  therefore,  she  saw  next  morning  that 
Agatha  was  going  to  wear  her  hat  at  luncheon  she 
quietly  took  her  own  bonnet  off  again.  It  gave  her 
the  opportunity  of  saying,  when  the  coffee  was  being 
passed,  "None  for  me,  thanks.  I'll  just  run  up  and 
get  ready  while  you're  having  yours." 

It  was  not  the  conventional  setting  for  a  matrimonial 
proposal ;  but  with  the  modern  tendency  to  do  things 
in  original  and  characteristic  ways  it  was,  perhaps, 
none  the  worse  on  that  account.  Agatha  sat  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  stirring  her  coffee,  quite  at  her  ease. 
Dunster,  equally  at  his  ease,  sat  at  the  side  and  lit  his 
cigarette.  The  maid  in  her  neat  black  gown  and 
white  apron  placed  the  fine  Champagne  beside  him  and 
slipped  from  the  room.  The  spring  sunshine  gleam 
ed  richly  on  the  mahogany  surfaces  of  the  highly  pol 
ished  Chippendale — some  of  it  original,  an  inheritance 
from  Agatha's  great-grandfather,  and  the  rest  of  it 
carefully  reproduced.  Outside,  in  the  garden,  there 
were  catkins  on  the  willows  and  crocuses  in  the  grass, 
and  a  general  sense  of  man  and  nature  making  new 
and  delightful  plans. 

"If  you  can  excuse  Mrs.  Dane's  prevarication," 
Agatha  said,  continuing  the  discussion  of  last  night's 
play,  "  I  should  think  you  could  produce  equally  strong 
arguments  in  favor  of  Mr.  Muir's." 

She  brought  out  the  name  boldly.  She  did  so  with 
deliberate  forethought;  for  there  were  certain  sub 
jects  that  must  be  faced  before  she  could  give  an 
affirmative  answer  to  the  question  which,  she  was  sure, 
was  hovering  on  Paul's  lips.  Dunster  himself  showed 

239 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

no  surprise.  He  had  been  warned  some  time  ago  by 
Persis  that  Agatha  might,  one  day,  like  to  talk  to  him 
about  Muir.  "She'll  have  to  speak  of  him  sooner  or 
later,"  Persis  had  reasoned.  "She  wouldn't  be  a 
woman  if  she  didn't.  If  so,  it  will  probably  be  to  you 
or  me;  and  if  it's  to  you,  you  mustn't  put  on  airs  of 
solemnity  or  make  her  think  it's  a  painful  topic.  You 
must  answer  just  as  casually  as  if  she  were  speaking 
of  Cousin  Abby  or  Cousin  Mary."  Startled  though 
he  was,  Dunster  did  his  best  to  follow  those  instruc 
tions  now. 

"I  don't  excuse  Mrs.  Dane,"  he  said,  as  calmly  as 
he  could.  "I  say  only  that  I've  a  lot  of  sympathy 
for  any  poor  wretch  entangled  in  a  net  which  is  partly 
woven  by  himself  and  partly  flung  around  him  by  the 
Fates." 

"You  say  that,  probably,  because  Mrs.  Dane  was  a 
woman.  If  it  were  a  man  who  had — " 

"I  should  feel  the  same.  In  any  such  system  of 
lying  it's  often  difficult  to  determine  how  much  is 
moral  obliquity  and  how  much  the  mere  splashing  of 
the  drowning  creature  to  save  itself.  Persis  thinks 
that  when  we  see  a  fellow  -  creature  sinking  —  from 
whatever  cause — we  should  run  to  him  with  a  rope. 
I'm  not  sure  that  I  go  as  far  as  that  myself,  but  at 
least  I'd  like  to  refrain  from  throwing  stones  at  him 
while  he's  going  down." 

"Isn't  that  something  new  with  you?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  it's  new  or  only  undiscov 
ered.  Persis  thinks  it's  the  latter.  She  says  I'm  like 
an  apple — sour  in  the  early  stages,  but  capable  of  mel 
lowing  tendencies  as  time  goes  on." 

"That's  rather  a  fine  trait  of  character,"  Agatha 
240 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

said,  pensively.  She  knew  that  by  following  this  vein 
and  making  him  talk  of  himself  she  could  bring  him 
to  his  offer.  But  she  was  not  ready  for  it.  Before 
she  could  listen  to  it  there  must  be  no  reserve  between 
them  as  to  her  own  attitude  towards  Muir. 

"Do  you  think,"  she  asked,  with  an  effort  to  keep 
the  conversation  to  its  original  theme,  "that  we  have 
anything  to  do  with  the  motives  of  other  people's 
wrong-doing?  Could  we  ever,  with  out  limited  know 
ledge,  disentangle  the  excusable  from  the  inexcusable 
with  anything  like  justice?" 

"I  suppose  we  couldn't,  but  we  could  try." 

"The  law  doesn't  try.  The  law  establishes  a  fact 
and  acquits  or  condemns  a  man  accordingly.  Temp 
tation  and  temperament  are  both  outside  its  scope." 

"The  law  is  a  great,  unemotional  spirit,  dealing  with 
us  in  general.  We,  on  the  contrary,  are  very  emo 
tional  flesh,  dealing  with  each  other  in  particular.  I 
think  the  least  we  can  do  is  to  aim  at  some  sympa 
thetic  understanding  of  why  the  people  we  know  go 
wrong — I  mean  the  people  we  know  well  or  are  fond 
of — the  people  towards  whom  we've  got  to  take  an 
attitude  of  approval  or  blame." 

"But  wouldn't  that  tend  to  take  the  backbone  out 
of  our  own  sense  of  rectitude?" 

"  I  don't  think  so.  If  you're  an  observer  of  human 
nature,  you  can't  fail  to  have  noticed  that  it  isn't  the 
sinner  who  has  compassion  on  the  sinner,  it's  the 
saint.  It  isn't  the  man  without  sin  who  is  eager  to 
cast  the  first  stone,  it's  always  the  one  who  can  be 
easily  convicted  by  his  own  conscience." 

"That  sounds  rather  odd,  coming  from  you." 

" Oh,  I!"  he  laughed.  " I'm  just  beginning  to  learn 
16  241 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

that  it's  the  man  who  beats  his  breast  and  doesn't 
dare  to  lift  up  so  much  as  his  eyes  unto  heaven  who 
goes  down  to  his  house  justified,  rather  than  he  who 
fasts  twice  in  the  week  and  gives  tithes  of  all  that  he 
possesses.  It  seems  an  obvious  moral  to  draw,  and 
yet,  I'm  afraid,  I'm  only  beginning  to  take  it  in." 

Agatha  was  not  sure  of  what  he  meant,  but  she 
thought  it  a  good  opportunity  to  bring  Muir's  name 
more  plainly  under  discussion. 

"Do  I  understand,"  she  asked,  "that  you  would 
make  excuses  for  people  like  Mrs.  Dane  and — and  Mr. 
Muir?" 

"I  think,"  he  said,  balancing  his  spoon  on  the  edge 
of  his  coffee-cup  and  looking  at  it  critically  with  his 
head  on  one  side — "I  think  I  could  best  explain  what 
I  mean  if  I  told  you  something.  It's  something 
which  I  feel  you  ought  to  know.  It  isn't  to  my 
credit,  but  if — " 

He  broke  off  suddenly.  He  was  going  to  say,  "if 
we  are  going  to  be  nearer  to  each  other,"  but  he  real 
ized  in  time  that  there  was  no  assurance  of  that  as 
yet. 

"It's  something  you  ought  to  know,"  he  repeated, 
"and  it  will  be  a  relief  to  my  mind  to  tell  you.  I 
played  a  certain  part  in  Muir's  trouble,  and  I'm  sorry 
for  it.  I've  learned  from  it  how  much  I'm  morally 
inferior,  in  many  ways,  to  Muir  himself." 

"Oh,  but,  Paul!"  she  protested. 

"Muir  and  I,"  he  pursued,  "  are  of  about  the  same 
age.  We  were  at  the  same  school,  we  were  in  the 
same  class  in  college,  we  took  the  same  courses,  and 
we  adopted  the  same  careers.  But  Muir  was  always 
ahead  of  me.  I  believed  I  had  better  qualities  than 

s      242 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

he,  but  he  always  won.  Two  years  ago  he  was  ap 
pointed  assistant-professor  while  I  was  left  an  in 
structor.  Our  books  were  published  about  the  same 
time,  and  his  leaped  into  success  while  mine  fell  dead 
from  the  press.  You  promised  to  marry  him,  while 
I—" 

Again  he  stopped.  "While  I,  who  loved  you," 
were  the  words  on  his  tongue,  but  it  was  not  the  mo 
ment  to  utter  them.  Agatha  expected  them  and 
waited. 

"I  hated  Muir,"  he  went  on  again.  "I  thought  I 
hated  him  from  natural  antipathy;  but,  since  I've 
come  to  analyze  my  own  motives,  I've  found  that  I 
hated  him  from  sheer  impotent  jealousy  of  a  success 
which  I  couldn't  achieve." 

"Paul,  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  say  this,"  she 
said,  with  an  air  of  distress. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  he  returned,  calmly.  "  You,  of 
all  people,  ought  to  know  me  as  I  am.  Well,  it  was 
just  at  the  time  of  your  engagement  to  Muir  that  I 
got  possession  of  his  secret.  I'd  had  Christopher 
Love's  old  book  among  a  lot  of  rubbish  on  my  shelves 
for  years  past.  I  can't  remember  how  it  ever  came 
into  my  possession.  I  dipped  into  it  one  day  by  ac 
cident,  and  then  I  saw  that  Muir  had  been  using  it. 
I  decided  then  and  there  to  break  his  career.  In  do 
ing  so  I  ascribed  to  myself  all  the  high  moral  princi 
ples  for  which,  I  think,  you  and  most  of  my  friends 
give  me  credit.  In  reality  I  was  doing  it  from  the 
smallest  promptings  of  meanness  and  revenge.  On 
the  very  night  when  we  all  dined  together  at  the 
Wollastons',  and  your  engagement  was  announced,  I 
attacked  Muir  at  the  table.  You  ought  to  remember 

243 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

it.  I  was  almost  insane  from  the  desire  to  degrade 
him  in  everybody's  eyes.  Later  I  made  away  with 
the  book  lest  it  should  fall  into  your  hands  and  give 
you  needless  pain;  but  I  knew  already,  in  my  secret 
heart,  that  Love,  of  Detroit,  would  never  give  up  till 
Muir  was  ruined." 

"I  don't  see  why  you're  telling  me  this.  I  wish 
you  wouldn't,  Paul." 

"I'm  telling  you,"  he  replied,  "largely  by  way  of 
illustration.  I  want  to  point  out  that  if  I'd  under 
stood  my  own  moral  state  I  shouldn't  have  been  so 
ready  to  heap  contempt  on  Muir's.  I  should  have 
had  sympathy  with  him,  perhaps  even  I  should  have 
stood  by  him — " 

"Oh!" 

"Yes,  I'm  hanged  if  I  shouldn't!  The  fellow 
showed  greater  pluck  than  any  of  us.  When  I  knew 
that  he'd  laid  his  soul  bare  before  the  world,  I  began 
to  see  that  he  had  displayed  a  courage  I  should  never 
have  been  equal  to.  And,  little  by  little,  through  the 
winter,  I've  felt  it  more.  I've  come  to  see  that  I've 
fallen  short  in  a  great  emergency — " 

"  Oh,  but,  in  saying  that  you  blame  me,"  she  broke 
in,  hurriedly. 

"I'm  not  speaking  of  any  one  but  myself." 

"But  do  you  blame  me?"  she  insisted. 

"Blame  you — how?" 

"In  the — the — emergency  of  which  you  speak,  do 
you  think  I  fell  short?" 

A  change  had  come  into  her  manner,  and  she  spoke 
with  painful  eagerness. 

"I'm  not  passing  judgment  on  any  one  but  my 
self." 

244 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"Then  I'll  put  it  differently.  Do  you  think  that  a 
woman  placed  as  I  was  placed  could  have  acted  other 
wise  than  as  I  acted?" 

He  looked  at  her  silently  and  there  was  a  long 
pause. 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should  answer  that,"  he  said,  at 
last. 

"But  I  insist,  Paul.  It's  of  the  greatest  conse 
quence  to  us  both  for  me  to  know." 

Again  there  was  a  pause. 

"If  you  insist,"  he  said,  finally,  with  characteristic 
bluntness,  "I  think  she  could  have  acted  otherwise." 

"What  sort  of  woman?  A  stronger  woman?  A 
better  woman?  A  more  loyal  woman?  What  sort 
of  woman  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I'm  not  prepared  to  say.  I 
suppose,  a  woman  who  thought  more  about  the  man 
she — she  loved  than  about  herself." 

"Would  any  woman  ever  have  done  it?"  she  cried, 
eager  to  justify  herself. 

"I  think  I  know  one  who  would,"  he  answered, 
quietly. 

"  Who  ?"  The  word  came  out  half  imperiously,  half 
incredulously. 

"Persis  Wollaston." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  uttered  a  little, 
scornful  laugh. 

"You're  mistaken,  Paul.  Persis  is  one  of  the  most 
bitter  against  him." 

"I'm  sure  you're  wrong." 

"  Mr.  Wollaston  himself  told  me  so." 

"Then  you  must  have  misunderstood  him.  Persis 
has  never  deserted  Muir  since  the  hour  of  his  down- 

245 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

fall.  She's  done  more  to  keep  him  sane  than  all  the 
rest  of  his  former  friends  put  together.  You've  no 
conception  of  what  a  splendid,  faithful,  noble  creat 
ure  she  is.  You  think  her  light-minded,  perhaps,  but 
she  has  an  immense  amount  of  real  seriousness  in  her 
little  head.  She's  one  of  the  sweetest  creatures  God 
ever  made,"  he  went  on,  breathlessly.  "You  don't 
know  what  she's  been  to  Muir  this  winter.  She  has 
not  only  kept  his  heart  from  breaking,  she  has  saved 
him  from  blowing  out  his  brains.  She's  given  him 
something  to  hold  by  and  believe  in.  You  can  take 
my  word  for  it;  if  he's  beginning  to  climb  up  out  of 
the  depths  again  it's  by  the  grasp  of  her  steady,  loyal 
little  hand.  It's  the  same  with  me.  It's  in  seeing 
what  she  is  that  I've  come  to  see  what  I  am.  It's  in 
watching  her  sympathy  for  a  ruined  man  that  I've 
realized  my  own  hypocritical  vindictiveness.  Agatha, 
I  wish  you  knew  her  as  she  is.  I'm  sure  you'd  want 
to  worship  the  very  ground  she — " 

Dunster  stopped,  startled  by  the  flow  of  his  own 
eloquence.  He  wondered  what  he  had  been  saying, 
and  how  he  would  ever  get  back  to  the  proposal  that 
had  been  so  often  on  his  tongue.  Agatha  looked  at 
him  curiously,  a  new  idea  beginning  to  shape  itself  in 
her  mind.  It  was  so  strange,  so  contrary  to  all  that 
she  had  taken  for  granted  hitherto,  that  it  seemed  as 
if  the  world  had  suddenly  begun  to  go  round  with  a 
reversed  motion.  The  silence  was  awkward,  and  her 
mind  groped  confusedly  for  something  to  say.  Be 
fore  she  had  found  it  there  was  a  loud,  significant 
cough  at  the  door.  There  followed  a  few  seconds' 
grace  before  Cousin  Abby  turned  the  knob  and  came 
in  very  slowly. 

246 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

"Well?"  she  demanded,  in  her  lordly  tone. 

"Well,  we're  ready,"  Agatha  said,  lamely,  while 
she  and  Dunster  rose. 

As  Miss  Leggett  had  committed  herself  to  the  belief 
that  it  was  to  be  "now  or  never,"  it  was  not  strange 
that  she  should  have  been  out  of  temper  during  the 
rest  of  the  afternoon. 


XXII 

[GATHA  paid  little  attention  to  the 
Shannon  portraits  that  afternoon.  As 
she  moved  from  one  fair  face  to  an 
other,  making  hap-hazard  comments, 
her  mind  was  busily  occupied  in  the 
effort  to  penetrate  the  mist  of  ideas 
gathering  round  her.  Where  she  had  thought  the  path 
of  duty  lay  clear  before  her  it  seemed  to  lose  itself 
suddenly  in  fog.  What  did  Paul  mean  ?  Did  he  love 
her?  Did  he  even  respect  her?  Was  he  going,  after 
all,  to  ask  her  to  marry  him?  She  had  considered 
herself  so  long  the  perfect  woman  in  his  eyes  that  it 
caused  her  a  strange  discomfort  to  think  otherwise. 
His  had  been  the  doglike  fidelity  on  which  a  woman 
who  has  suffered  likes  to  fall  back  when  other  sup 
ports  have  failed  her.  She  had  never  supposed  for  a 
moment  that  when  she  turned  to  it,  it  would  not  be 
there.  She  had  never  dreamed  that  he  could  criticise 
her  or  take  his  absolute  approval  back.  She  had 
counted  so  much  on  his  devotion  that  she  had  hardly 
given  it  its  proper  value.  To  have  to  think  now  that 
she  had  been  mistaken  put  all  her  mental  processes 
out  of  joint. 

With  regard  to  Muir  she  was  even  more  bewildered. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  she  could  have 
adopted  any  other  line  than  that  which  she  had  fol- 

248 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

lowed.  He  had  avowed  himself  unworthy  of  her,  and 
there  had  seemed  but  one  thing  for  her  to  do.  To  do 
it,  she  had  beaten  back  her  own  heart  until  it  seemed 
to  lie  bruised  and  insensible  within  her.  And  now 
was  she  to  question  her  own  heroism  and  wonder  if, 
after  all,  she  had  not  been  wrong?  A  woman,  so 
Paul  Dunster  said,  who  thought  less  of  herself  than 
of  the  man  she  loved  might  have  acted  differently. 
He  had  gone  further  and  singled  out  Persis  Wollaston 
as  one  who  could  have  done  so.  Persis  had  never  de 
serted  Anthony  Muir  since  the  hour  of  his  downfall. 
She  had  done  more  than  any  one  to  keep  him  sane. 
She  had  not  only  saved  him  from  breaking  his  heart, 
but  from  blowing  his  brains  out.  If  he  was  climbing 
up  out  of  the  depths  again  it  was  by  the  grasp  of  her 
loyal  little  hand.  Agatha  turned  these  words  over 
in  her  mind  and  admitted  to  herself  that  she  did  not 
like  them.  She  had  an  unreasonable  feeling  that 
every  one  was  against  her.  They  had  kept  in  touch 
with  Anthony  Muir  and  done  good  by  stealth  and  shut 
her  out  of  a  share  in  it.  A  share!  She  should  have 
had  all  of  it.  Why  had  they  not  told  her  that  there 
was  anything  to  be  done?  As  it  was,  he  might  rise 
from  his  ruin,  like  Lazarus  from  the  grave,  and  owe 
nothing  whatever  to  her.  She  had  never  contem 
plated  the  possibility  of  his  being  saved,  and,  now  that 
the  chance  of  it  loomed  up  before  her,  it  was  a  scorch 
ing  thought  that  the  instrument  of  his  salvation 
should  be  any  other  woman  than  herself. 

She  knew  she  was  very  unhappy,  and,  as  she  was 
reaching  the  limits  of  her  self-control,  she  allowed  her 
self  to  be  irritable.  She  stood  admiring  the  portrait 
of  Lady  Dempster,  and  yet  when  Cousin  Abby  came 

249 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

up  and  admired  it,  too,  she  declared  that  she  thought 
it  hideous.  She  couldn't  see  how  any  one  with  taste 
could  find  it  otherwise.  Cousin  Abby  called  on  Dun- 
ster  to  endorse  her  opinion.  Dunster,  who  had  seemed 
to  be  in  the  clouds  ever  since  luncheon,  confessed  him 
self  no  judge  of  pictures.  "  What  on  earth  is  the  use 
of  people  coming  to  see  a  collection  of  portraits  if  they 
can't  judge  of  pictures?"  Agatha  asked,  and  moved 
on  to  another.  Dunster  and  Miss  Leggett  exchanged 
glances  and  followed. 

"It's  your  fault,"  Cousin  Abby  whispered. 

"Why?     I  haven't  done  anything,"  he  protested. 

"That's  just  it.  I've  no  patience  with  you,"  she 
retorted,  raising  her  nose  with  Juno-like  scorn. 

Dunster  put  them  into  the  carriage  and  they  drove 
home  in  silence.  Later  they  dined  in  silence.  Agatha 
thus  had  time  to  think.  Her  irritation  passed  and  her 
sense  of  justice  returned.  She  acquitted  Paul  and 
Cousin  Abby  of  any  deliberate  intention  to  injure  her, 
and  she  admitted  that  even  Persis  might  not  have 
been  aware  that  she  was  "doing  any  harm."  After 
dinner  she  did  not  take  her  work,  but  roamed  rest 
lessly  about  the  house.  It  was  already  late  when  she 
came  into  the  library  where  Miss  Leggett,  deep  in  her 
arm-chair,  was  gleaning  the  last  morsels  of  informa 
tion  from  the  evening  paper. 

Agatha  sat  down  at  the  large  central  table,  slightly 
behind  Miss  Leggett  and  in  a  position  where  she 
could  not  easily  be  seen.  She  was  still  meditating; 
and  though  she  began  arranging  the  various  small 
objects  before  her,  it  was  from  that  instinctive  use 
of  the  hands  which  often  helps  to  concentrate  the 
thoughts. 

250 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"Cousin  Abby,"  she  said,  at  last,  "do  you  know 
what  Paul  thinks?" 

"Something  stupid,  I  dare  say,"  Miss  Leggett  an 
swered,  without  looking  up  from  her  paper.  "  I  be 
lieve  that  boy  would  let  the  world  drop  from  under 
his  feet  if  the  law  of  gravitation  didn't  keep  him  on 
it." 

"He  thinks,"  Agatha  went  on,  slowly,  ignoring  the 
inner  meaning  of  the  last  remark — "he  thinks  that  I 
might  have  acted  otherwise  last  autumn." 

"Last — when?"  Miss  Leggett  cried,  sharply,  wheel 
ing  round  in  her  chair. 

"Last  autumn  —  about  Mr.  Muir,"  Agatha  ex 
plained,  a  deep  color  stealing  into  her  cheek.  "He 
thinks  that  if  I'd  stood  by  him — " 

"Oh,  but,  my  dear,  only  a  very  superior  woman 
could  have  done  that."  Agatha  winced,  and  Miss 
Leggett  saw  her  mistake.  "Not  that  you  wouldn't 
be  equal  to  anything,"  she  corrected,  "only — only, 
it  doesn't  seem  quite  your  style." 

"You  mean  that  it  isn't  my  style  to  be  loyal." 

"No,  I  don't." 

"Yes,  you  do,  Cousin  Abby.  You  think  I've  only 
got  it  in  me  to  be  a  fair-weather  friend." 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  why  are  you  bringing  this  up 
now?"  Miss  Leggett  asked,  in  not  unreasonable  as 
tonishment.  "Surely  you're  not  thinking — " 

"No,"  Agatha  broke  in,  hastily,  "I'm  not  thinking 
of  anything.  I'm  just  wondering.  Naturally,  I  can't 
help  asking  myself  sometimes  if  I  did  quite  right." 

"You  did  what  you  were  quite  justified  in  doing." 

"But  is  it  enough  to  be  only  justified?  Mayn't 
there  be  something  more?" 

251 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"My  dear,  you  might  as  well  ask  if  it's  enough  only 
to  get  into  heaven.  No  doubt  there  may  be  some 
thing  more,  but  that's  very  good  as  it  is." 

"But  you  said  yourself  that  a  very  superior  wom 
an—" 

"Oh,  well,  I  meant  a  woman  who  has  nothing  else 
to  do  but  be  superior.  Don't  take  offence  at  that. 
You're  superior  enough,  Heaven  only  knows.  I  don't 
know  how  we  should  live  with  you  if  you  were  any 
more  so." 

"Still,  you  meant — " 

"  Now,  don't  go  telling  me  what  I  meant.  You'll 
allow  me  to  know  that  better  than  you." 

"You  meant,"  Agatha  persisted,  "that  a  woman  of 
higher  type  than  I  would  have  forgotten  herself  for 
the  sake  of  the  man  whose  life  she  had  promised  to 
share,  whatever  it  might  turn  out  to  be." 

"If  I  meant  anything  at  all,"  Cousin  Abby  said, 
impatiently,  "I  meant  a  woman  like  Hester  Symes, 
who  married  that  dreadful  bank  president  —  Cox,  I 
think  his  name  was.  She  was  engaged  to  him  before 
the  thing  happened,  and  she  waited  till  he  came  out 
of  prison.  Then  she  married  him." 

"And  did  she — help  him?" 

"  Of  course  she  helped  him.  All  the  good  that  ever 
came  to  him  after  that  he  owed  to  her.  But,  my 
dear,  she  wasn't  a  bit  like  you.  She  was  a  plain  girl, 
with  no  style,  and  hardly  ever  asked  anywhere." 

"Still,  she  did  it." 

"Oh  yes,  she  did  it,  and  everybody  respected  her 
for  it;  but,  as  I  say,  she  had  nothing  else  to  do.  It's 
different  with  you,  who  have  so  much  to  keep  up 
for." 

252 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"But  couldn't  I  keep  up  and  do  that,  too?" 

"No,  you  couldn't;  and  you'd  better  be  quite  clear 
about  it.  When  a  woman  does  what  Hester  Symes 
did,  she's  got  to  choose  between  staying  up  and  going 
down." 

"Why?"  Agatha  asked,  blankly. 

"  From  the  very  nature  of  the  case.  When  a  man 
has  lost  his  footing,  so  to  speak,  no  woman  can  re 
store  him.  She  can  go  to  him  and  share  his  lot;  she 
can  never  bring  him  to  share  hers." 

"I  don't  see  that — "  Agatha  began  to  argue. 

"You'd  see  it  if  you  tried  it,"  Cousin  Abby  assured 
her.  "  It  isn't  possible  that  it  should  be  otherwise. 
Everybody  respected  Hester  Symes,  as  I've  said,  but 
they  didn't  ask  him  and  her  to  dinner.  They  didn't 
ask  them  to  anything.  They  just  respected  her  and 
let  them  be." 

"Does  that  seem  right?"  Agatha  asked,  with  a 
touch  of  indignation. 

"  It  mayn't  be  right  in  strict  evangelical  theory,  but 
it's  right  enough  in  ordinary  mundane  practice.  What 
else  could  even  their  best  friends  do?  Nobody  could 
forget  that  he'd  speculated  with  a  bank's  money  and 
ruined  ever  so  many  people.  Of  course  they  couldn't. 
He  might  have  been  the  most  penitent  sinner  ever 
pardoned,  and  yet  public  opinion  wouldn't  and 
couldn't  treat  him  as  if  he  hadn't  sinned  at  all.  It 
was  perfectly  splendid  of  Hester  Symes,  but  when 
she  took  him  she  had  to  choose  between  the  rest  of 
the  world  and  him.  I  don't  mean  to  say  she  didn't 
do  him  a  lot  of  good,  but  it  wasn't  in  her  power  to 
bring  him  back  to  the  life  he'd  led  before.  What  she 
did  was  to  comfort  him  and  strengthen  him  and  give 

253 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

him  back  something  of  the  self  -  confidence  of  a  man 
after  having  been  a  convict.  She  went  down  the  steps 
of  honor  in  order  to  help  him  up  again ;  but  even  so, 
she  could  never,  never  drag  him  to  the  top." 

"That  seems  hard,"  Agatha  said,  with  a  catch  in 
her  voice. 

"  I  don't  believe  she  found  it  so,"  Cousin  Abby  went 
on.  "  You  see,  they  became  all  in  all  to  each  other.  I 
believe  she  loved  him  the  more  for  the  sacrifice  he 
cost  her." 

"Could  that  happen?" 

"With  a  woman  like  Hester  Symes  it  could." 

"But  not  with  a  woman  like  me.  I  think  you're 
rather  pitiless,  Cousin  Abby." 

"  We're  not  talking  about  you,  my  dear — at  least, 
I'm  not.  It's  too  late  for  you  to  think  about  such  a 
thing — that  is,  if  you  are  thinking  about  it." 

"Too  late?  Why  is  it  too  late?"  Agatha  raised 
her  head,  with  a  look  in  which  there  was  both  defiance 
and  alarm. 

Cousin  Abby  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  her  ex 
pression  seemed  to  say,  "  You  ought  to  know  that  as 
well  as  I." 

"Why  is  it  too  late?"  Agatha  asked  again. 

"  Because,"  Miss  Leggett  explained,  looking  vague 
ly  off  into  the  shadows  of  the  room — "because  that 
sort  of  generosity  must  show  itself  at  once  or  not 
at  all.  No  man  with  any  pride  could  accept  the 
loyalty  that  comes  halting  along  six  months  behind 
hand." 

"Oh,  don't!"  Agatha  pleaded. 

"It's  true,  my  dear.  A  woman  who  makes  such  a 
sacrifice  as  thac  mustn't  have  any  doubt  about  it. 

254 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

She  must  know  from  the  very  first  instant  that  she 
has  it  in  her  to  do  it." 

"  But  I  didn't  know  it  was  to  be  done,"  Agatha 
cried,  in  a  quavering  tone,  suggestive  of  tears.  "  I 
didn't  know  women  ever  did  such  things.  I  thought 
I  had  to  give  him  up  in  order  to  keep  my  self- 
respect.  I  could  have  gone  down  the  steps  of  honor, 
too,  only  I  didn't  know  there  was  a  way." 

"And,  I  dare  say,  it's  all  the  better  for  you  that 
you  didn't,"  Cousin  Abby  said,  consolingly.  "You 
might  have  done  something  rash  and  been  sorry  for 
it.  If  you'd  said  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  that 
you'd  be  true  to  him,  it's  quite  possible  that  you 
might  have  regretted  it  afterwards ;  and  what  an  awk 
ward  position  you'd  have  been  in  then.  Believe  me, 
you're  much  more  comfortable  as  you  are.  You've 
got  your  home  and  your  money  and  your  friends,  and 
one  of  these  days,  I  hope,  you'll  have  a  good  husband. 
I  don't  believe  nature  ever  intended  you  to  give  up 
such  evident  blessings  and  to  put  yourself  into  social 
exile.  As  I  said  before,  it's  a  question  of  staying  up 
or  going  down,  and  I  can't  think  you're  meant  to  do 
the  latter." 

"Not  even  if  it  was  down  the  steps  of  honor,"  the 
girl  said,  mournfully. 

"For  pity's  sake,  Agatha,  don't  get  that  expression 
on  the  brain!  I  just  dropped  it  accidentally.  I 
didn't  suppose  you  were  going  to  seize  on  it  and  turn 
it  into  a  text.  But  that's  where  you  make  yourself  a 
trial.  You're  worse  than  a  Browning  Club.  You'll 
take  a  person's  words  and  put  ten  meanings  into  them, 
when  it's  very  questionable  if  there's  one." 

Agatha  sighed  and  leaned  her  face  on  her  hand. 
255 


The   Steps    of   Honor 

She  could  not  deny  that  Cousin  Abby  had  remark 
ably  clear  views  on  the  subject.  Her  house  and  her 
money  and  her  friends  meant  much  to  her.  "And  I 
should  have  to  go  and  leave  them,"  she  said  to  her 
self — "at  least,  I  should  have  to  leave  my  home  and 
friends.  I  could  keep  the  money,  I  suppose.  I  see 
it.  I  couldn't  bring  Anthony  back  into  the  old  life. 
I  should  have  to  go  with  him  and  make  a  new  one; 
but,"  she  added,  with  a  leaping  of  the  heart,  "it  would 
be — yes,  it  would  be — going  down  the  steps  of  honor 
to  help  him  up  again." 

Her  reflections  were  interrupted  by  a  sound  of 
voices  in  the  hall.  Suddenly  the  door  was  thrown 
open  and  Mrs.  Wollaston  with  a  scarf  over  her  head 
tottered  in.  Agatha  and  Cousin  Abby  were  on  their 
feet  in  an  instant. 

"My  dears!"  Mrs.  Wollaston  gasped,  breathlessly. 
"My  dears!" 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  what  is  it?"  Cousin  Abby  cried. 
"What  brings  you  here  so  late?  Where's  Cousin 
Hector?" 

"  He's  at  home,"  Mrs.  Wollaston  panted.  "  I  came 
with  the  cook.  The  most  awful  thing  has  happened. 
I  couldn't  wait  till  morning.  I  knew  you  wouldn't 
sleep  if  you  heard  it,  any  more  than  I  shall." 

"  What  in  the  name  of  pity  can  it  be?"  Miss  Leggett 
demanded.  "Why  don't  you  tell  us  and  be  done 
with  it?  Is  anything  the  matter  with  Cousin  Hec 
tor?" 

"No,  no.  It  isn't  that.  Let  me  sit  down.  I'm 
ready  to  faint  away." 

Agatha  pushed  an  arm-chair  forward,  and  Mrs. 
Wollaston  dropped  into  it. 

256 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"No,  it  isn't  Hector,"  she  gasped  again,  as  soon  as 
she  could  get  her  breath.  "It's  Paul.  He's  been  at 
our  house  all  the  evening  acting  like  a  madman. 
You'll  never  believe  it  when  I  tell  you  —  never, 
never." 

"If  you  don't  tell  us  now,  I'll  shake  you,"  Cousin 
Abby  threatened,  standing  over  her. 

"Yes,  I'll  tell  you.  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  as  if  I 
should  ever  get  my  senses  again.  And  Hector  gives 
me  no  sympathy  whatever.  My  dears,  I  don't  know 
what  you'll  say.  Paul  and  Persis  are — engaged." 

17 


XXIII 


JO  Agatha  the  new  engagement  was 
not  so  much  a  disappointment  as  a 
[shock.  She  had  the  tenacity  of  idea 
natural  to  a  mind  that  moves  by  slow, 
well-ordered  processes,  and  it  was 
difficult  for  her  at  all  times  to  adapt 
herself  to  new  conceptions.  Though  she  had  reason 
to  guess  at  the  nature  of  Dunster's  feeling  for  Persis 
Wollaston,  she  could  not  discard,  at  a  moment's  notice, 
the  long-standing  conviction  that  his  love  was  her 
own.  When  it  was  brought  home  to  her  that  she  was 
wrong,  it  was  not  the  discovery  that  was  painful,  but 
the  mental  revolution.  She  was  under  no  illusion 
whatever  as  to  her  own  regard  for  him.  It  was  a  re 
gard  and  nothing  more.  She  had  been  ready  to  mar 
ry  him,  but  only  by  way  of  sacrifice — sacrifice  of  her 
useless  life  to  secure  his  happiness  and  please  her 
friends.  She  would  have  put  no  heart  into  it,  because 
she  had  no  heart  to  put  into  anything.  As  to  all  this 
her  mind  was  clear;  but  that  Paul's  happiness  could 
be  secured  elsewhere  was  a  surprise  so  sudden  as  to 
be  very  like  a  blow.  For  a  few  hours  it  seemed  to 
leave  her  more  desolate  than  ever.  It  was  only  as 
her  mind  accustomed  itself  gradually  to  the  new  sit 
uation  that  she  saw  it  to  be  the  best  one.  If  Paul  and 
Persis  loved  each  other,  surely  nothing  could  be  more 

258 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

satisfactory  on  all  grounds  of  family  interest  and 
neighborly  affection. 

So  in  the  morning  she  went  to  Persis  and  kissed 
and  blessed  her  in  complete  sincerity.  She  shook 
hands  with  Dunster  and  wished  him  well,  in  such  a 
way  as  to  leave  no  suspicion  of  the  thought  that 
twenty-four  hours  before  she  had  expected  life  to  take 
a  different  turn  for  all  of  them.  If  she  was  conscious 
of  a  twinge  in  letting  him  go,  it  was  only  such  a  twinge 
as  a  woman  feels  in  giving  away  a  jewel  that  has  been 
one  of  her  treasures,  but  which  she  cannot  wear.  In 
her  secret  heart  she  already  felt  a  certain  relief  in  the 
fact  that  Dunster's  destiny  could  be  worked  out  sep 
arately  from  her  own. 

That  relief  grew  stronger  as  the  days  went  by.  In 
the  new  turn  of  events  she  began  to  perceive  that  she 
was  much  less  the  centre  of  attraction  in  their  little 
group  than  she  had  been  hitherto.  It  was  extraordi 
nary  with  what  facility  Cousin  Abby  Leggett  and 
Cousin  Mary  Dunster  and  Cousin  Fanny  Wollaston 
had  deposed  Agatha  from  her  pedestal  and  put  Persis 
up  on  it.  They  acknowledged  Persis's  supremacy 
with  as  speedy  a  loyalty  as  bees  acknowledge  a  new 
queen.  There  was  no  talk  now  but  of  Persis's  clothes 
and  Persis's  tastes  and  what  the  young  couple  would 
need  in  the  way  of  house-linen.  They  revelled  in 
the  engagement  with  as  much  glee  as  if  it  had  been 
the  very  one  they  had  planned  for  years  to  bring 
about. 

Agatha  was,  therefore,  left  much  to  the  society  of 
her  own  thoughts,  and  she  was  glad  of  it.  It  enabled 
her  to  co-ordinate  her  new  impressions  and  adjust  her 
self  to  the  new  conditions.  It  enabled  her  to  go  back 

259 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

and  trace  the  sequence  of  small  events  that  had  led 
to  the  present  state  of  things.  She  saw  that  she  had 
had  no  reason  to  think  that  Paul  had  ever  loved  her 
except  in  the  fact  that  every  one  had  told  her  so. 
And  yet  her  woman's  instinct  insisted  that  he  had. 
She  was  sure  of  it.  She  had  been  to  him  in  theory 
that  ideal  of  the  noble,  faithful,  ministering  woman 
which  Persis  had  become  in  practice. 

When  she  had  turned  her  back  on  Anthony  Muir, 
Paul  had  been  disillusioned.  As  Muir's  ruin  had  re 
vealed  to  Dunster  his  own  littleness  of  character,  so 
it  had  revealed  hers.  That  was  plain.  It  was  plain, 
too,  that  he  had  turned  with  true  masculine  instinct 
to  the  woman  whose  spiritual  nature  was  strong 
enough  to  help  him  upward — "up  the  steps  of  honor," 
Agatha  added,  clinging  to  the  phrase.  She  had,  there 
fore,  been  given  up  by  one  man  because  she  had  not 
been  true  to  another.  It  was  a  curious  situation,  and 
her  not  very  acute  intelligence  failed  her  in  the  effort 
to  fathom  so  much  psychological  mystery. 

It  was  not  only  Paul  who  felt  so  about  her.  Mr. 
Wollaston,  in  his  way,  did  the  same.  She  could  see 
that  now,  from  her  talk  with  him  of  a  few  days  before. 
In  her  literalness  she  had  thought  he  meant  one  thing 
when  he  had  clearly  meant  another.  "  Fanny  would 
have  stuck  to  me  to  the  bitter  end."  And  Fanny  was 
his  standard  of  everything  feminine  and  noble.  Even 
Cousin  Abby  had  admitted  that  "a  superior  woman" 
could  have  done  what  she,  Agatha  Royal,  had  left  un 
done.  Her  home,  her  money,  her  friends,  and  a  good, 
commonplace  husband  were  evidently  considered  to 
be  enough  to  satisfy  all  her  yearnings.  There  were 
better  things  than  these  in  life,  but  they  could  be 

260 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

found  only  in  going  down  the  steps  of  honor,  which 
she  was  not  the  woman  to  descend. 

She  admitted  the  justice  of  these  opinions  about 
her,  and  yet  she  knew  that  her  nature  within  was 
essentially  loyal  and  true.  If  she  had  been  unequal 
to  the  higher  way,  it  was  because,  in  her  bitterness  and 
humiliation,  she  had  not  seen  it.  That  was  the  hard 
part  of  it.  She  had  done  battle  with  herself,  only  to 
force  her  feet  into  the  less  worthy  road.  Now  she 
had  gone  so  far  on  it  that  it  was  too  late  to  retrace 
her  footsteps. 

Was  it  too  late?  Yes,  surely.  Cousin  Abby  must 
be  right.  "  No  man  with  any  pride  would  accept  the 
loyalty  that  comes  halting  along  six  months  behind 
hand."  That  sentence  seemed  not  only  to  paralyze 
her  action,  but  to  prevent  her  mind  from  working  for 
ward.  If  it  were  not  that  she  saw  herself  always 
"halting  along  six  months  behindhand"  a  way  might 
have  been  found.  Persis  might  have  done  something. 
In  her  own  new  happiness  she  might  have  conveyed 
some  hint  to  Muir.  But  Agatha  dared  not  ask  her. 
He  was  proud  and  she  had  treated  him  disdainfully. 
She  could  see  herself  still  as  she  handed  him  back  his 
ring,  without  a  word  of  pity  or  a  look  of  farewell.  She 
could  see  him,  too,  as  he  opened  the  door  for  her  to 
sweep  by — guilty,  ruined,  but  courteous  to  the  last. 
After  long  months  of  anguish  she  was  only  beginning 
to  perceive  that  he  would  never  have  emptied  himself 
of  all  earthly  consideration  as  he  had  done  had  he 
not  possessed  those  saving  qualities  of  courage  that 
make  a  man.  But  it  was  too  late  for  her  to  put 
forth  any  recognition  of  that  fact  now.  She  could 
only  let  him  work  out  his  own  salvation,  and  re- 

261 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

sign  herself  to  having  neither  part  nor  lot  in  the 
task. 

March  went  out  and  April  came  in,  with  its  birds  and 
buds  and  soft  west  winds  and  sense  of  sprouting  joy- 
ousness.  The  date  of  the  wedding  was  fixed  for  early 
June.  Agatha  and  Cousin  Abby  were  in  the  library 
one  evening  discussing  their  own  respective  parts  in 
the  festivity  when  the  maid  announced  a  strange 
young  man.  He  wished  to  see  Miss  Royal  privately, 
and  gave  his  name  as  "Mr.  John  Charterhouse." 

"  It  seems  to  me  I've  heard  it  before,"  Agatha  said, 
"but  I  don't  know  where." 

"Have  him  shown  in  here,"  Miss  Leggett  advised, 
lifting  herself  heavily  from  her  arm-chair.  "I'll  go 
into  the  next  room,  so  that  if  he  tries  to  murder  you 
I  can  put  my  head  out  of  the  window  and  call  for  help. ' ' 

A  minute  later  Charterhouse  was  ushered  in.  He 
was  as  small  and  wistful  as  ever,  but  in  brand-new 
clothes  and  gloves  he  had  an  air  of  increased  impor 
tance.  Wondering  who  he  was  and  what  he  had 
come  for,  Agatha  bowed  and  asked  him  to  sit  down. 
He  did  so  at  once  and  opened  the  conversation  with 
characteristic  simplicity. 

"I  guess  you'd  like  to  know  what  brings  me,  Miss 
Royal,"  he  said,  looking  her  in  the  eyes  with  the  wan 
directness  that  had  touched  Muir. 

"If  I  can  be  of  any  service  to  you  I  shall  be  very 
glad,"  Agatha  returned.  She  suspected  he  was  one 
of  the  students  who  "  put  themselves  through  college  " 
by  becoming  agents  for  butter  or  buttons  or  some 
other  harmless  household  necessity. 

"  I've  come,"  he  went  on,  "  because  we  want  to  give 
Miss  Persis  Wollaston  a  wedding -present,  and  we 

262 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

thought  perhaps  you'd  help  us  to  pick  out  something 
she'd  specially  like." 

Agatha  was  too  much  astonished  to  reply  at  once, 
so  Charterhouse  continued. 

"I  hope  you  won't  be  offended,  Miss  Royal,  but 
we  thought  that  nobody  would  know  as  well  as  you. 
You  see,  we  can't  spend  much  money  on  it,  not  even 
when  we  all  club  together,  so  we  thought  that  some 
thing  real  useful  would  be  best.  We  don't  want  it  to 
be  anything  that  she'd  have  half  a  dozen  of,  nor 
anything  that  she'd  put  away  and  forget.  We'd  like 
it  to  be  something  she'd  use  for  herself  every  day  and 
all  the  time.  We've  thought  of  napkin-rings  and 
salad-forks  and  pickle-jars,  but  we  concluded  she'd 
have  as  many  of  those  things  as  she'd  want.  So  we 
thought  that  if  we  saw  you  about  it  you'd  suggest 
something  real  unique,  that  nobody  else  would  give 
her  and  that  she  couldn't  do  without." 

"May  I  inquire,"  Agatha  asked,  "whom  you  mean 
by  we  ?" 

"I  mean  Lucy  Brooks  and  Daisy  Pine  and  Edgar 
Ford  and  Harry  Hathaway  and  Murray  Johnson  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  Roxbury  crowd  that  Mr.  Muir  has 
been  so  good  to." 

Agatha  started,  but  forced  herself  to  speak  calmly. 

"  Did  Mr.  Muir  suggest  your  coming  to  me?" 

"  No,  Miss  Royal.  He  doesn't  know  anything 
about  it.  It's  entirely  our  own  idea.  You  see,  Lucy 
Brooks  and  Daisy  Pine  and  I  are  the  committee;  and, 
as  Miss  Wollaston  has  always  praised  you  up  so  and 
said  you  were  her  best  friend,  we  were  sure  you'd 
help  us.  We  don't  want  to  throw  good  money  away 
on  something  she  wouldn't  like." 

263 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

Again  Agatha  could  not  reply.  She  sat  looking  at 
him,  but  almost  without  knowing  he  was  there. 
These,  then,  were  the  people  of  quite  modest  station 
in  life  of  whom  the  professor  had  spoken  and  among 
whom  Anthony  had  cast  his  lot.  What  Persis  had 
to  do  with  them  she  could  not  quite  make  out,  but 
evidently  they  loved  her.  And  now  they  were  com 
ing  to  include  her.  It  seemed  as  if  the  dark  clouds 
that  wrapt  her  round  were  lifting  and  a  light  were 
shining  through. 

"I  hope  you're  not  offended,  Miss  Royal,"  Johnny 
Charterhouse  said,  when  the  silence  had  lasted  for 
some  minutes. 

"No,  no;  I'm  only  thinking,"  Agatha  answered 
him.  "I'm  thinking  what  Miss  Wollaston  would 
like.  Is  Mr.  Muir  quite — quite  well?" 

"He's  pretty  well,  Miss  Royal.  He's  not  so  well 
as  he  was.  It's  my  belief  he  works  too  hard.  He 
scarcely  ever  goes  out  except  for  an  hour  or  so  in 
Franklin  Park.  There  he  can  take  a  good,  swinging 
walk,  just  as  if  he  were  in  the  country,  and  in  the  early 
part  of  the  afternoon  there  are  never  any  people 
about.  But  he  always  goes  straight  back  to  his  work 
again,  and  it  isn't  good  for  him." 

"He  works  at  his  writing,  I  suppose." 

"Some;  but  that's  not  the  hardest  part  of  it.  He 
has  pretty  nearly  his  whole  day  filled  up  with  some 
of  the  crowd.  He's  coaching  two  fellows  for  their 
finals  and  one  for  his  preliminaries  and  three  or  four 
that  are  going  to  be  school-teachers;  and  a  lot  of  us 
others,  who  have  jobs  during  the  day,  work  with  him 
at  night.  It's  all  for  nothing,  too,  Miss  Royal;  for 
he  only  takes  boys  and  girls  who  haven't  the  money 

264 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

to  pay  for  superior  instruction  and  would  have  to  do 
without  it.  If  it  wasn't  for  him  they  wouldn't  be 
learning  anything  at  all,  or  else  they'd  be  drudging 
along  alone." 

"How  did  Mr.  Muir  happen  to  begin  that  work?" 
"It  began  with  me,  Miss  Royal,"  the  boy  said, 
proudly;  and  then,  without  waiting  for  further  invi 
tation,  he  told  the  story  of  what  Anthony  Muir  had 
done  for  him.  He  told  it  with  day  and  date,  so  that 
Agatha,  putting  one  thing  with  another,  could  see 
the  boy's  history  interwoven  with  the  man's.  She 
could  see  Muir,  in  helping  Johnny  Charterhouse  to 
work  out  his  penance,  working  out  his  own.  She 
could  almost  trace  the  progression  of  his  thoughts 
during  the  last  week  he  remained  at  Harvard. 

As  the  lad  talked  she  plied  him  with  questions. 
In  a  few  minutes  she  knew  everything  there  was  to 
know.  She  learned  how  Muir  had  gone  to  Greenland 
Park,  how  he  had  lived  at  first  and  how  he  was  liv 
ing  now.  She  learned  how  he  had  taken  up  his  mis 
sion  by  teaching  French  to  Charterhouse  himself 
and  Latin  to  Lucy  Brooks.  She  learned  how  Lucy 
Brooks  had  brought  Daisy  Pine  and  Daisy  Pine  had 
brought  Edgar  Ford  and  Edgar  Ford  had  brought 
Harry  Hathaway,  and  how  the  chain  had  been  thrown 
out  farther  still.  She  learned  how,  just  by  chance, 
Charterhouse  had  one  day  met  Paul  Dunster,  and  in 
reply  to  Dunster's  questions  told  why  he  had  left 
Harvard,  what  he  was  doing,  and  where  he  was  living. 
She  learned  how  Charterhouse  had  mentioned  to  Dun 
ster  the  presence  in  Greenland  Park  of  Anthony  Muir. 
She  learned  how  Persis,  inspired  by  Dunster,  had 
come  to  Mrs.  Brooks  on  the  pretext  of  having  dresses 

265 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

made,  how  she  had  brought  Dunster's  books  for  Muir 
to  read,  and  how  she  had  begun  to  work  with  Daisy 
Pine.  She  learned  how  Persis,  without  knowing  it, 
had  been  Muir's  consolation,  and  had  kept  him  in 
touch  with  the  world.  She  learned,  in  short,  all  the 
development  of  heart,  character,  and  conscience  that 
had  been  taking  place  that  winter  among  some  of 
those  who  were  nearest  her,  but  of  which  she  was  ig 
norant,  because  she  had  turned  her  eyes  away.  She 
felt  scorn  of  herself  for  her  pride,  for  her  hardness,  for 
her  inactivity;  but  she  could  not  let  the  boy  see  that. 
She  compelled  herself  to  let  the  conversation  shift 
from  Muir  to  the  errand  on  which  Charterhouse  had 
come. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  after  they  had  discussed  the 
subject  further — "perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  Miss 
Brooks  and  Miss  Pine  were  to  come  and  see  me  them 
selves  about  it.  It's  possible  that  if  three  women's 
heads  get  together  they  might  beat  out  a  happier 
suggestion  than  you  and  I  alone."  Charterhouse 
thought  the  idea  excellent  and  so  did  she.  It  would 
put  her  more  fully  in  touch  with  Muir  and  his  inter 
ests  than  she  could  be  in  any  other  way.  "  I  shall  be 
at  home  to-morrow  evening  and  delighted  to  see 
them,"  she  said.  Charterhouse  undertook  that  they 
should  appear,  and  promised  to  escort  them  over. 
Then  he  rose  to  go  away. 

"I  think  you  said  that  Mr.  Muir  went  out  to  walk 
every  day  in  Franklin  Park,"  she  said,  after  they  had 
shaken  hands. 

"Yes,  Miss  Royal." 

"In  the  early  part  of  the  afternoon?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Royal." 

266 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"Does  he  always  go  in  the  same  direction?" 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  but  he  always  goes  in 
and  out  by  the  gate  just  up  from  Greenland  Park." 

"It  would  be  between  two  and  four  o'clock,  I  sup 
pose?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Royal." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Charterhouse.  Good-night,  and 
I  shall  see  you  again  to-morrow.  Tell  Miss  Brooks 
and  Miss  Pine  what  pleasure  they'll  give  me  in  com 
ing." 

He  bowed  his  final  leave-taking  clumsily,  and  was 
fumbling  at  the  door  when  another  idea  occurred  to 
her. 

"And,  Mr.  Charterhouse,"  she  said,  "don't  men 
tion  to  Mr.  Muir  that  you  saw  me." 

"No,  Miss  Royal;  certainly  not,"  he  answered,  and 
passed  out  into  the  hall. 

He  was  looking,  in  the  semi-obscurity  of  the  hang 
ing-lamp,  for  his  hat  and  overcoat  when  she  hurried 
after  him. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  with  some  hesitation — "per 
haps  you  might  tell  him  that  you  did  see  me." 

"Yes,  Miss  Royal.     I'll  do  that." 

"Thank  you.     Good-night." 

"  Good-night,  Miss  Royal.     Thank  you  very  much." 

She  returned  to  the  library  and  listened  while  Char 
terhouse  opened  the  street  door.  In  a  minute  he 
would  be  gone,  she  thought,  and  she  might  never 
have  another  opportunity. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Charterhouse,"  she  called,  slipping  out  to 
him  again.  He  turned  with  his  hand  on  the  knob. 
"Perhaps,"  she  stammered — "perhaps,  after  all,  you 
can  say  that  I  told  you  to  tell  him  you  saw  me.  Tell 

267 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

him  we've  been  talking  about  him,  and  that  I've  been 
very  much  moved." 

"Yes,  Miss  Royal,"  he  answered,  with  the  same 
mechanical  utterance  as  before. 

When  he  had  closed  the  door  behind  him,  she  re 
mained  standing  in  the  hall.  She  put  her  hands  to  her 
flaming  cheeks  and  wondered  what  explanation  she 
could  give  of  them  to  Cousin  Abby.  To  herself  she 
was  saying  with  a  kind  of  exultation: 

"I've  taken  the  first  step  down  towards  him.  If 
he  wants  me  to  come  all  the  way  I  will  leave  every 
thing  else  behind." 


XXIV 

|T  two  o'clock  on  the  following  day 
Agatha  drove  into  Franklin  Park 
through  the  entrance  indicated  by 
Johnny  Charterhouse.  Her  heart  beat 
wildly  and  she  was  almost  afraid  to 
look  about  her.  She  knew  she  was 
doing  that  which  nothing  but  success  could  justify. 
If  she  failed  she  would  reproach  herself  all  her  life  for 
having  made  the  attempt.  When  she  saw  a  rustic 
bench  beside  some  yellow-flowering  shrubs  she  got 
out  of  the  carriage  and  bade  the  coachman  drive 
farther  on.  She  trembled  so  that  she  could  scarcely 
reach  the  seat.  All  her  senses  seemed  to  merge  into 
that  of  fear — the  fear  lest  he  should  come,  and  the 
greater  fear  lest  he  should  not  come. 

From  where  she  sat  no  one  could  enter  or  pass  out 
through  the  gateway  unobserved.  For  the  time  be 
ing  she  had  the  wide  extent  of  mead,  playstead,  and 
woodland  entirely  to  herself.  The  children  were  still 
at  school,  and  it  was  too  soon  for  leisured  strollers  to 
come  and  take  the  air.  The  trees  were  in  tender  bud, 
the  grass  was  vividly  green,  while  here  and  there  an 
early  dandelion  made  a  gold  spot  like  a  star.  But 
Agatha  saw  none  of  these  things,  nor  was  she  con 
scious  of  the  spring.  All  her  powers  of  vision  were 
concentrated  on  the  open  gate  through  which  her 

269 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

destiny,  for  good  or  ill,  might  come.  In  the  half -hour 
that  passed  she  did  not  mark  the  flight  of  time;  it 
might  have  been  a  minute,  it  might  have  been  a  year. 

When,  at  last,  a  tall  figure  came  in  sight  all  capac 
ity  of  volition  or  intention  seemed  to  leave  her.  She 
rose  and  went  forward  by  instinct,  without  reflection 
or  conscious  thought.  It  was  as  though  she  was 
borne  onward  by  some  power  independent  of  herself, 
to  which  there  was  no  resistance. 

He  walked  slowly,  with  bowed  head,  like  a  man 
overweighted  with  a  sense  of  lassitude.  He  did  not 
look  up  nor  notice  her  until  she  was  close  beside  him 
and  he  heard  her  cry : 

"Oh,  Anthony,  you've  turned  gray!" 

It  was  not  what  she  had  prepared  to  say.  The 
words  came  out  in  spite  of  herself.  The  sight  of  his 
whitened  hair  had  torn  them  from  her. 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  For 
an  instant  neither  of  them  seemed  to  breathe.  It 
was  he  who  broke  the  silence  first. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  here,"  he  said,  "other 
wise  I  shouldn't  have  come." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,"  she  pleaded.  "I  waited  for 
you." 

"You — you — wanted  to  see  me?" 

"I  had  to  see  you,"  she  returned,  clasping  her 
hands  tightly,  like  a  person  in  prayer. 

"Why?" 

He  asked  the  question  not  coldly,  but  distantly, 
in  a  voice  which  expressed  no  emotion  beyond  a  faint 
surprise. 

"  You  got  my  message — last  night — from  Mr.  Char 
terhouse?" 

270 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

She  was  getting  farther  and  farther  from  all  that 
she  had  meant  to  say. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  in  the  same  dull  tone.  "You 
were  very  kind." 

"  I  wanted  you  to  know,"  she  hurried  on,  confused 
ly,  "that  I  was  thinking  of  you.  I  thought  that  per 
haps  you'd  let  me  help  you." 

"Help  me?" 

"In  your  work,  you  know — in  what  you're  doing 
for  the  young  people.  Not  you — of  course,  not  you." 

"Oh,  that!"  he  said,  with  the  faintest  smile  of  fa 
tigue.  "I'm  not  doing  much,  and  it's  work  in  which, 
from  its  very  nature,  no  one  can  be  of  service  but 
myself." 

"I  thought  that,  since  Persis  is  going,  I  might  per 
haps — possibly — if  you  were  willing — I  might  take 
up  her — " 

"  vShe's  coming  back,"  he  interrupted.  "  She  means 
to  go  right  on  after  her  marriage  as  she  did  before." 

"Then  something  else,"  she  urged.  "I  don't  care 
what  it  is.  Oh,  Anthony,"  she  burst  out,  "  don't  look 
at  me  like  that!  I'm  so  sorry  for  the  past!" 

It  was  said  now  —  the  very  thing  she  had  in 
tended  not  to  utter  unless  he  himself  drew  the  con 
fession  forth.  He  had  not  done  so.  It  had  come  of 
its  own  accord.  It  had  come  because  her  heart  could 
not  keep  it  back  any  longer.  It  had  come  chiefly 
because  he  had  stood  away  from  her,  looking  at  her 
as  from  the  other  side  of  an  unbridged  gulf. 

"Suppose  we  sit  down,"  he  said,  gently.  "I  see 
you're  trembling.  I'm  afraid  the  effort  of  coming 
here  has  been  too  much  for  you." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  bench  from  which  she  had 
271 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

risen.  She  followed  with  bowed  head,  her  breath 
coming  brokenly,  like  sobs. 

"Now,  won't  you  tell  me  just  what  you  mean?"  he 
said,  when  they  were  seated  side  by  side,  turning 
slightly  towards  each  other.  He  spoke  in  the  kindly 
voice  one  might  use  towards  a  child. 

"I  mean,"  she  tried  to  answer,  "that  I'm  sorry  I 
misjudged  you." 

"Oh  no,"  he  broke  in,  quickly.  "You  didn't  mis 
judge  me." 

"And  if,"  she  went  on — "if  I'd  known  there  was 
the  other  way,  I  should  have  taken  it." 

"What  other  way?"  he  asked,  with  gentle  coldness. 

"It  wasn't  necessary — what  I  did,"  she  managed 
to  say.  "I  could  have  acted  otherwise.  If  I'd 
thought  less  of  myself  and  more  of  you — " 

"You  could  have  made  the  sacrifice,"  he  added,  as 
she  hesitated. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "and  I  should  have  made  it 
gladly." 

There  was  a  pause.  Muir  looked  on  the  ground  as 
though  reflecting. 

"You  ought  not  to  reproach  yourself,"  he  said,  at 
last,  glancing  up  at  her  again.  "You  did  only  what 
I  should  have  insisted  on — if  I  had  had  the  choice." 

"You  mean  that  we  couldn't  have  gone  on — " 

"I  mean  that  I  couldn't  have  accepted  the  sacrifice 
you  might  have  been  willing  to  make.  If  you'll  think 
awhile  you'll  see  that  I  couldn't.  If  it  had  been  any 
other  kind  of  wrong — I  mean  one  of  those  forms  of 
wrong  which  don't  require  that  a  man  shall  fall  from 
the  position  he  happens  to  hold  and  lose  a  place  of 
respect  among  his  fellow-men — then,  I  don't  say  but 

272 


The    Steps    of    Honor 

that  it  might  have  been  otherwise.  If  you  had  been 
able  to  forgive  me  then,  I  might  have  availed  myself 
of  that  forgiveness  and  begun  again.  But  in  this 
case — " 

"It  makes  no  difference  to  me,"  she  cried. 

"But  it  does  to  me,"  he  said,  with  more  feeling  in 
his  tone  than  he  had  betrayed  hitherto.  "Out  into 
the  world  where  I  was  obliged  to  go — " 

"I  would  have  followed,"  she  said,  proudly. 

"But  I  couldn't  have  let  you.  Don't  you  see?  It 
wouldn't  have  been  possible.  It  would  have  been 
worse  than  everything  I  had  done  before.  You 
would  have  wanted  to  comfort  me — " 

"Yes,  yes." 

"  But  you  would  have  made  me  more  unhappy. 
It  was  bad  enough  to  suffer  alone,  but  if  I  had  made 
you  suffer,  too — " 

"You  couldn't  save  me  from  that.  I  did  suffer 
as  it  was." 

"Yes,  of  course.  That  couldn't  be  helped.  That 
was  an  inevitable  part  of  the  wrong  I  did  you.  But 
at  least  you  suffered  in  your  own  home  and  among 
your  own  friends  and  with  a  prospect  of  consolation 
sometime,  before  you.  No,  believe  me,  you  mustn't 
reproach  yourself.  Don't  try  to  take  from  me  the 
one  poor  ray  of  satisfaction  which  lights  up  my  life — 
that  I  saved  you  from  bearing  my  name  and  sharing 
my  downfall." 

"Oh,  Anthony,"  she  moaned,  "you  don't  under 
stand!" 

"I  do  understand.     I  understand  that  the  winter 
has  been  hard  for  you — perhaps  as  hard  as  it's  been 
for  me.     And  now  you're  tired — " 
is  273 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"I  am.     I'm  more  than  tired." 

"And  it  seems  to  you  as  if  the  easiest  thing,  and 
perhaps  the  happiest  thing,  would  be  for  you  and  me 
to  blot  out  the  last  few  months  and  try  to  pick  up 
our  life  from  the  days  when  we  first  began  to — be 
gan—" 

He  hesitated  and  stammered.  He  did  not  dare  to 
use  the  old  word  again. 

"But  we  couldn't  do  it,"  he  resumed.  "We 
couldn't  blot  out  what  I've  done  wrong.  The  mem 
ory  of  it  would  be  always  between  us." 

"But  I've  done  wrong,  too,"  she  urged. 

"Not  like  mine.  But  you're  tired.  What  you 
need  is  courage  to  fight  on  a  little  longer." 

"Alone?" 

"Yes,  alone.  It's  only  alone  that  this  sort  of  bat 
tle  can  be  waged.  You'll  win  yet." 

"And  forget  you?     Is  that  what  you  mean?" 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  mean.  You'll  forget  me.  It's 
all  I  can  pray  for." 

"And  you'll  forget  me,  too?" 

Again  the  ghost  of  a  smile  hovered  on  his  lips. 

"There's  no  question  of  me,"  he  said,  as  if  it  were  a 
matter  of  indifference.  "All  I  live  on  is  what  I  have 
to  remember.  But  I  shall  have  more  now,"  he  added 
— "now  that  you've  come  to  tell  me  this." 

"But  you'll  let  me  come  again?" 

"You'd  better  not,"  he  said,  gently.  "It's  very 
good  of  you  to  have  come  to-day,  but  it  will  be  easier 
for  us  both  if  we  consider  this  to  be — the  end." 

"And  the  work?     Can't  I  do  anything?" 

"There's  nothing  to  be  done — nothing  you  could 
do." 

274 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"You  turn  me  away,  then?" 

"I  don't  turn  you  away.  I'm  only  too  far  off  for 
you  to  reach  me.  I'm  too  far  off  and  too  low  down. 
I'm  not  in  the  same  world  that  I  used  to  be  in — not 
any  more  than  I'm  the  same  Anthony  Muir.  You  can 
see  that  by  looking  at  me.  I'm  an  old  man  at  thirty, 
and  I've  nothing  left  but  an  old  man's  dreams." 

"What  are  they?" 

"His  dreams  of  the  past,  dreams  that  can  never 
have  any  realization  until  he  wakes  up — elsewhere." 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  break  my  heart  when  you 
talk  like  that?" 

"  I  know  I  must  give  you  pain.  That's  why  I  say 
that  it  would  be  easier  for  us  both  if  we  didn't  meet 
again." 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  something,"  she  said,  in  a  tone 
of  despairing  impatience.  "Do  you  think  there's 
anything  in  the  world  that's  worth  anything  at  all  to 
me  as  long  as  you  and  I  are — like  this?" 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  what  you  can  give,  it's  a 
question  of  what  I  can  take.  I  haven't  much  honor 
left,  but  I  should  have  none  at  all  if  I  allowed  you  to 
come  down  from  your  position  to  share  mine." 

" But  if  I  wanted  to?  If  it  was  killing  me  because 
I  couldn't?" 

"You're  discouraged  because  you're  tired,"  he  said, 
in  the  same  monotonous  tone.  "But  I'm  sure  you 
must  know  that  your  battle  is  half  won.  A  little  more 
courage  and  you'll  be  stronger.  A  few  months  hence 
— a  year  hence  at  most — " 

She  rose,  wearily. 

"  You  drive  me  to  despair,"  she  said,  in  the  tone  of 
one  who  gives  up  the  struggle.  "  You  let  me  humili- 

275 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

ate  myself  for  nothing.  You're  perfectly  pitiless.  I 
shouldn't  have  come,  only  that  I  took  it  for  granted 
that  we  both  felt  as  we  used  to  feel.  I  didn't  think  it 
necessary  to  question  that.  And  now  I  begin  to  see 
that  you've — " 

"For  God's  sake,  Agatha,  don't  think  that!"  he 
cried,  springing  to  his  feet.  "It's  more  to  me  than 
ever.  It's  all  I  have." 

"Then  why — ?"  she  began  to  argue,  all  over  again. 

"Because  I  can't,"  he  insisted.  "Because  I  never 
can.  Because  it  isn't  possible  for  you  to  come  down 
to  me — not.  any  more  than  it  is  possible  for  me  to 
climb  up  to  you." 

She  moved  out  of  the  shrubbery  into  the  roadway 
and  towards  the  carriage. 

"  I  didn't  think,"  she  said,  as  he  walked  beside  her — 
"I  didn't  think  you  were  a  man  who  would  let  the 
shadow  hide  the  substance,  or  let  a  morbid  fancy 
stand  between  me — please  notice  that  I  say  me — 
between  me  and  any  comfort  there  may  be  left  for 
me." 

"If  I  didn't  know  life  so  well,"  he  returned,  "if  I 
couldn't  look  forward  and  see  you  a  few  years  hence, 
happy  and  with  this  all  behind  you — " 

She  stopped  in  her  walk  and  confronted  him. 

"Anthony,"  she  cried,  "do  you  really  think  I  can 
ever  be  happy  again?  If  so,  you  may  know  life,  but 
you  don't  know  me.  I  couldn't  have  been  happy  as 
it  was,  and  now — since  we  have  had  this  conversa 
tion — less  than  ever.  I've  done  what  no  other  wom 
an  would  have  done — " 

"  No  other  woman  would  have  been  noble  enough," 
he  murmured. 

276 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"  I've  thrown  myself  at  your  feet,  and  you  wouldn't 
stoop  to  pick  me  up.  Now  you  tell  me  to  go  and  be 
happy,  as  if  happiness  were  a  commodity  at  com 
mand." 

"  I  know  it  seems  hard.  You  mustn't  think  it  isn't 
harder  for  me  than  for  any  one.  I've  just  one  bit  of 
inspiration  that  gives  me  strength  for  it — I'm  saving 
you  from  yourself.  It  takes  all  the  moral  force  I've 
got,  but,  thank  God,  I  can  do  it.  In  future  years — " 

"Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  of  years!"  she  cried,  with  a 
mingling  of  exasperation  and  despair.  "It's  bad 
enough  to  have  to  meet  the  day,  without  looking  be 
yond  that." 

"And  yet  the  years  pass,"  he  said,  as  they  began 
walking  on  again.  "That's  what  I  count  on  for  your 
sake.  They'll  pass  and  you'll  have  a  life  more  worthy 
of  you  than  anything  you  could  have  with  me.  If  I 
didn't  love  you  so  much — yes,  let  me  say  it  just  this 
once  again — if  I  didn't  love  you  so  much,  so  very 
much,  I  couldn't  refuse  the  joy  you're  holding  out 
to  me.  But  it's  because  I  do  love  you  that  I  reject 
your  sacrifice  in  order  to  claim  the  place  for  mine." 

When  he  paused  she  made  no  answer,  and  they 
walked  on  in  silence. 

"I  can't  say  anything  more,"  she  said,  when  they 
reached  the  carriage. 

"No,  you  can't,"  he  returned,  quietly.  "The  last 
word  will  be  with  Time.  For  me  Time  will  be  shorter 
now,  since  you've  come — this  once." 

"And  I  shall  never  come  again,"  she  said,  "unless 
you  send  for  me." 

"It  will  be  better  so,"  he  agreed,  dully. 

Her  tears  began  to  flow  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts 
277 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

after  self-control,  and  she  stepped  up  hastily  into  the 
carriage  without  his  help.  Then  she  turned  and  held 
out  her  hand. 

"Good-bye,"  she  murmured. 

He  bent  over  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said,  firmly,  when  he  had  raised 
himself.  ' '  Good-bye ;  good-bye. ' ' 

The  carriage  rolled  away  and  she  did  not  turn  to 
look  at  him  again.  She  was  tired — with  a  great, 
aching  weariness.  She  felt  bruised  and  stunned,  as  if 
she  had  been  in  some  strange  combat.  As  she  drove 
out  of  the  park  she  sank  back  among  the  cushions  of 
the  carriage  as  though  with  a  sense  of  sheer,  physical 
refreshment. 

"No  doubt  he's  right — no  doubt  he's  right,"  she 
repeated  to  herself.  "  It  will  be  easier  for  us  both  if 
we  consider  this  to  be — the  end." 

She  was  too  tired  to  have  acute  sensations  or  reason 
on  the  subject  further.  As  she  passed  on  homeward, 
through  the  busy  thoroughfares,  her  mind  groped 
after  vague  recollections  of  a  picture  she  had  seen  in 
some  gallery  abroad — a  picture  in  which  Love  was 
being  slain  by  Pride. 


XXV 

|HE  warm  June  afternoon  was  closing 
and  Mrs.  Wollaston  was  waiting  for 
her  husband  to  come  home  to  dinner. 
It  was  unusual  for  him  to  be  out  so 
late,  unless  it  were  at  some  protracted 
meeting  of  the  Faculty.  It  was  the 
day  after  the  wedding,  and  she  had  spent  it  in  trying 
to  "tidy  up"  the  disordered  house.  She  had  gone 
from  room  to  room,  sighing  over  its  emptiness  now 
that  Persis  was  no  longer  there.  She  took  the  con 
tents  of  drawers  and  hung  them  up  in  closets,  and  she 
took  the  contents  of  closets  and  folded  them  up  in 
drawers.  Now  and  then,  when  she  found  anything 
that  belonged  to  Persis,  she  sighed  more  heavily  and 
brushed  and  smoothed  and  patted  it  with  special  care. 
An  hour  ago,  when  she  had  come  across  the  quaint 
little  suit  in  which  the  tiny  orphan  of  four  years  old 
had  been  brought  to  make  her  home  with  them,  she 
sat  down  and  had  what  she  called  "  a  good,  refreshing 
cry."  After  that  she  felt  better,  and  began  to  won 
der  what  in  the  world  could  detain  Mr.  Wollaston  so 
long.  She  kept  at  her  work,  however,  and  did  not 
hear  him  when  he  opened  the  street  door. 

"  Fanny!"  he  called,  loudly.     "  Where  are  you?" 
"I'm  here,  Hector,"  she  answered,  running  from 
279 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

Persis's  room  to  the  head  of  the  stairs.     She  knew 
by  his  voice  that  something  was  the  matter. 

" There's  the  devil  to  pay!"  he  cried  up  to  her,  as  he 
stood  in  the  hall  below. 

"There's  the — what,  Hector?" 

"  I  said  the  devil,  and  if  there  was  anything  worse 
than  the  devil  it  would  be  that." 

"But  I  can't  think — " 

"Of  course  you  can't  think.  Nobody  ever  could 
think.  Come  down." 

"Whatever  can  it  be?"  she  asked,  fluttering  over 
the  stairs  towards  him. 

He  drew  back  from  her,  and  stood  in  the  attitude 
of  Jove  about  to  hurl  a  thunder-bolt. 

"Prepare  yourself,  my  dear,"  he  warned  her. 

"I'm  prepared,  Hector,  and  I'm  dying  to  know." 

"Agatha  Royal  is  going  to  marry  Muir.     There!" 

Mrs.  Wollaston  displayed  a  disappointing  lack  of 
astonishment. 

"Well,  I'm  not  surprised,"  was  her  only  comment. 
"I've  seen  for  the  last  few  months  that  she'd  have 
to  do  it  or  go  into  a  decline.  So  they're  engaged 
again." 

"They're  worse  than  engaged;  they're  nearly  mar 
ried." 

"Nearly  married,  Hector!  Why,  what  do  you 
mean?  Nearly  married!" 

"Well,  so  they  are.  They're  going  to  be  married 
to-night." 

Mrs.  Wollaston  uttered  a  light  scream. 

"To-night?     To-night?     Hector,  are  you  crazy?" 

"I'm  the  only  one  who's  sane,  as  far  as  I  can  see; 
and  my  mind  is  going  fast." 

280 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

"And  mine  will  be  clean  gone  if  you  don't  tell  me 
this  very  minute  what  it's  all  about." 

"The  whole  thing,"  the  professor  explained,  "is 
the  fault  of  that  young  elf,  Johnny  Charterhouse.  I 
said  from  the  beginning  that  that  boy  should  have 
been  put  in  prison,  and  it's  a  thousand  pities  that  he 
wasn't  sent  there  for  life." 

"What  can  he  have—?" 

"It  seems  that  Muir  is  ill — been  ill  for  some  time. 
Trouble  and  overwork,  the  doctor  says,  but  I  don't 
believe  it.  Anyhow,  they've  all  been  worried  about 
him.  They  try  this  thing  and  that  thing,  but  nothing 
does  him  any  good.  Then  my  lord  Johnny  Charter 
house  gets  it  into  his  head  that  he  knows  the  cure. 
Over  he  goes  to  Agatha  Royal  and  she  walks  straight 
into  the  trap." 

"  But  she  was  here  this  morning — to  get  the  spoons 
and  forks  she  lent  us  yesterday." 

"  He  was  lying  in  wait  for  her  when  she  went  back, 
and  she  cleared  out  with  him  as  if  she'd  been  kid 
napped.  The  next  thing  I  know,  Johnny  Charter 
house  travels  after  me  and  catches  me  just  as  I'm 
coming  out  of  Massachusetts.  All  I  can  gather  from 
him  is  that  Agatha  is  in  a  most  painful  and  equivocal 
position.  Off  I  have  to  go  with  him  to  a  place  called 
Greenland  Park — miles  and  miles  outside  the  pale  of 
civilization." 

"And  what  then?" 

"Then  I'm  marched  up-stairs  into  a  room;  and 
what  do  I  find  but  Anthony  Muir  lying  in  bed,  his  face 
as  white  as  his  hair  and  his  hair  as  white  as  his  face." 

"Oh,  poor  fellow!  How  he  must  have  suffered! 
Was  there  nobody  with  him?" 

281 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

"Nobody!  There  was  Miss  Agatha  Royal,  with 
her  hat  off  and  an  apron  on,  making  herself  quite  at 
home.  I  could  have  blushed,  Fanny." 

"But  you  didn't — ?" 

"They  didn't  give  me  time.  They  both  began  to 
talk  at  once,  and  I  couldn't  make  out  half  of  what 
they  were  trying  to  say.  All  I  could  understand  was 
that  he  didn't  want  to  marry  her  or  she  didn't  want 
to  marry  him,  and  he  wouldn't  have  the  ceremony 
unless  she'd  go  away  and  she  wouldn't  go  away  unless 
she  had  the  ceremony,  and  he  would  and  she  wouldn't 
and  she  could  and  he  couldn't  and  fiddle-faddle  and 
falfal  —  you  never  heard  such  a  rigmarole.  It  was 
enough  to  take  your  head  off.  But  the  upshot  of  it 
all  was  that  they  were  going  to  be  married  to-night." 
.  "And  none  of  us  there?" 

"All  of  us  there!  My  good  woman,  you  haven't 
heard  the  half  of  it  yet.  You're  to  get  yourself  to 
gether  and  be  over  there  by  half-past  eight.  Bless 
your  soul,  I'm  to  be  bridesmaid  and  you're  to  be  best 
man,  or  t'other  way  round!  Everything  is  so  topsy 
turvy  that  it  doesn't  matter  which." 

"But  she  hasn't  any  clothes.  When  she  was  here 
this  morning  she  had  nothing  on  but  that  last  year's 
muslin.  She  couldn't  be  married  in  that." 

"Oh,  bless  your  heart!  Johnny  Charterhouse  has 
attended  to  all  that.  He's  been  over  and  got  Abby 
Leggett  to  pack  her  up  a  regular  trousseau.  You 
never  saw  such  a  boy." 

"For  pity's  sake!  I  never  knew  people  could  be 
married  in  such  a  higgledy-piggledy  way.  Aren't 
there  laws  about  it?" 

"Oh,  we've  kept  all  of  them,"  the  professor  said, 
282 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

ironically.  "Johnny  Charterhouse  looked  out  for 
that.  You'd  never  believe  the  indignity  to  which  he 
subjected  me." 

"You,  Hector!" 

"Yes,  me,  Fanny — me  in  my  own  proper  person. 
Almost  before  I  knew  what  they  were  driving  at,  or 
who  wanted  to  be  married  and  who  didn't,  I  was 
marched  off  with  Agatha  to  get  a  license — just  as  if  I 
were  going  to  sell  spirits.  I  had  to  put  down  her  age 
and  her  color,  and  his  age  and  his  color,  and  how  many 
times  they'd  both  been  married  before,  and  the  Lord 
knows  what  besides.  It  cost  me  fifty  cents,  and 
Agatha  didn't  so  much  as  hint  at  returning  it.  It's 
all  perfectly  shameful,  and  I  never  expected  to  live 
to  see  this  day." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  look  at  it  in  that  way,  Hector, 
dear,"  she  said,  consolingly.  "If  you  were  a  woman 
you'd  understand — " 

"  I  shouldn't  understand  if  I  were  a  horse,  let  alone 
a  woman,"  he  roared,  savagely.  "There  are  things 
that  pass  the  limits  of  human  comprehension — 'pon 
my  soul  there  are!" 

"But  I  shouldn't  call  this  one  of  them,  Hector. 
When  two  people  love  each  other  as  Agatha  and  Mr. 
Muir  evidently  do,  then  there's  no  sin  on  the  one  side 
which  won't  be  pardoned  on  the  other,  not  unless" — 
she  coughed  and  colored  before  she  could  finish  her 
sentence — '"not  unless  it's  habitual  unfaithfulness." 

"Even  so,  they  could  be  married  in  an  open,  re 
spectable  manner." 

"Everything  depends  on  circumstances,  dear,"  she 
reasoned,  gently.  "  My  heart  goes  out  to  Agatha,  I 
must  say.  No  one  but  a  woman  can  know  how  much 

283 


The    Steps    of  Honor 

another  woman  aches  and  yearns  to  do  for  the  man 
she  loves,  when  he's  ill  or  in  trouble  or  abandoned  by 
everybody  else.  The  wife's  instinct  always  has  in 
it  something  of  the  mother's,  and  no  creature  de 
prived  of  its  young  could  suffer  more  than  I've  seen 
Agatha  suffer  lately.  It  hasn't  been  only  the  need 
to  see  him  and  hear  his  voice ;  it's  been  the  need  to  do, 
to  give  out  the  treasures  of  love  and  care  and  protec 
tion  that  every  good  woman  has  within  her.  Oh, 
you  can't  tell  me!  I  was  rather  surprised  that  she 
didn't  feel  so  when  the  trouble  came  last  year,  but  I 
see  that  she's  only  been  slow  to  awaken.  And  now 
that  she  goes  there  and  finds  him  ill — oh,  I  can  quite 
understand! — she  simply  doesn't  mean  to  leave  him. 
That's  all  there  is  about  it.  I  should  feel  precisely 
the  same.  If  when  we  were  engaged  I'd  gone  to  you 
and  found  you  ill  and  deserted  and  unhappy  I  should 
have  stayed  by  your  bedside,  married  or  single." 

"Oh,  my  dear  Fanny!" 

"Yes,  Hector — married — or — single — but  there  I 
should  have  stayed.  They  could  have  come  and  mar 
ried  me  if  they  had  liked.  They  could  have  married 
me  with  a  curtain-ring  or  a  button-hook,  but — there 
— I — should — have — stayed!"  Mrs.  Wollaston  em 
phasized  her  words  by  staccato  taps  on  the  bannister 
with  what,  for  her,  was  an  unusual  degree  of  force. 
" Mind  you,"  she  went  on,  "I  could  wish  that  Agatha 
were  married  in  any  other  way  and  perhaps  to  any 
other  man — though  I  haven't  my  mind  altogether 
made  up  about  that — but  I  repeat  that  in  her  situa 
tion  I  should  do  the  very  same." 

"But  you're  not  out  of  it  yet,"  he  warned  her. 
"There's  worse  in  store  for  you  than  anything  you've 

284 


The    Steps   of  Honor 

heard.     You  didn't  know,  perhaps,  that  as  soon  as 
Muir  can  be  moved  they're  planning  to  spend  their 
honeymoon  at  our  cottage  at  the  sea-side." 
"Well,  that  does  stagger  me,"  she  admitted. 
"I  thought  it  would,  ma'am." 
"But  if  you've  asked  them,  Hector — " 
"I?     Not  a  bit  of  it.     I'd  scarcely  begun  to  think 
of  it  before  the  thing  was  done.     The  very  words 
were  taken  out  of  my  mouth.     Something  was  said 
about  his  having  sea-air  and  sympathy — I  don't  just 
know  what — and  before  I  knew  where  I  was,  I  was  all 
tangled  up  and  they  had  it  settled.     I  wash  my  hands 
of  it ;  but  I  knew  that  that  would  bowl  you  over  if 
nothing  else  would." 

"But  I'm  not  sure,  Hector,"  she  said,  in  her  slow, 
reflecting  tone,  "that  it  wouldn't  be  a  good  thing. 
We  could  cut  the  door  we've  so  often  talked  of  be 
tween  the  guest-room  and  Persis's  room,  and  we 
could  repaper  them  both  and — " 

"Oh,  that's  it.  Build  the  house  over  again." 
"I'm  sure  it  would  be  a  good  thing,"  she  cried,  with 
conviction.  "  It  would  be  a  good  thing  in  every  way. 
If  we  have  them  under  our  protection,  as  it  were,  no 
one  can  say  a  word.  All  the  college  people  will  see 
how  we  feel,  and — and  it  will  make  a  difference.  Be 
sides  that,  now  that  dear  Persis  won't  be  there, 
Agatha  will  be  company  for  you." 

"And  Muir  for  you,  I  suppose  you  mean." 
"  Oh,  as  long  as  you're  there,  Hector,  I  have  all  the 
company  I  want." 

"Don't  count  on  me.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  shall  be 
there  at  all.  I  sha'n't  be  long  for  this  world  if  things 
keep  happening  as  they're  doing  now." 

385 


The    Steps    of   Honor 

The  maid  came  to  announce  dinner,  and  they  hur 
ried  off  to  make  a  few  elementary  preparations. 

The  meal  was  eaten  hastily  and  almost  in  silence. 
Each  had  matter  for  thought.  The  professor  missed 
his  little  Persis,  and  was  reckoning  up  exactly  how 
many  weeks  it  would  be  before  she  returned  from  her 
honeymoon  abroad.  Mrs.  Wollaston  missed  her,  too ; 
but,  in  spite  of  everything,  her  mind  worked  busily, 
and,  in  a  certain  sense,  cheerfully,  over  the  changes 
she  would  make  in  the  cottage  for  the  new  guests' 
occupation. 

Before  dinner  was  ended  she  left  the  table  to  array 
herself  in  the  very  gown  and  bonnet  she  had  worn  at 
Persis's  wedding  yesterday.  She  would  be  dressed 
like  a  lady,  at  any  rate,  she  said  to  herself,  as  she 
put  them  on. 

When  she  descended  the  carriage  was  already  there. 
Mr.  Wollaston  stood  beside  it,  the  door  open,  to  hand 
her  in. 

"Muir  is  marrying  as  I  did,"  he  said,  as  she  ap 
peared;  "he's  taking  her  out  of  pity." 

With  her  foot  on  the  step  and  her  hand  in  his  she 
turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"And  Agatha  is  marrying  as  I  did,"  she  answered, 
quietly;  "she's  taking  him  to  save  his  life." 

For  a  second  they  remained  thus,  smiling  into  each 
other's  eyes.  Then,  with  a  lilt  as  light  as  in  1861, 
she  sprang  into  the  carriage  and  they  started  for  the 
wedding. 


THE    END 


MYRTLE    REED'S   NOVELS 

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LAVENDER  AND  OLD  LACE. 

A  charming  story  of  a  quaint  corner  of 
New  England  where  bygone  romance  finds  a 
modern  parallel.  The  story  centers  round 
the  coming  of  love  to  the  young  people  on 
the  staff  of  a  newspaper — and  it  is  one  of  the 
prettiest,  sweetest  and  quaintest  of  old  fash 
ioned  love  stories,  *  *  *  a  rare  book,  ex 
quisite  in  spirit  and  conception,  full  of 
delicate  fancy,  of  tenderness,  of  delightful 
humor  and  spontaniety. 


A  SPINNER  IN  THE  SUN. 

Miss  Myrtle  Reed  may  always  be  depended  upon  to  write  a  story 
in  which  poetry,  charm,  tenderness  and  humor  are  combined  into  a 
clever  and  entertaining  book.  Her  characters  are  delightful  and  she 
always  displays  a  quaint  humor  of  expression  and  a  quiet  feeling  of 
pathos  which  give  a  touch  of  active  realism  to  all  her  writings.  In 
"A  Spinner  in  the  Sun"  she  tells  an  old-fashioned  love  story,  of  a 
veiled  lady  who  lives  in  solitude  and  whose  features  her  neighbors 
have  never  seen.  There  is  a  mystery  at  the  heart  of  the  book  that 
throws  over  it  the  glamour  of  romance. 

THE    MASTER'S    VIOLIN. 

A  love  story  in  a  musical  atmosphere.  A  picturesque,  old  Ger 
man  virtuoso  is  the  reverent  possessor  of  a  genuine  "Cremona."  He 
consents  to  take  for  his  pupil  a  handsome  youth  who  proves  to  have 
an  aptitude  for  technique,  but  not  the  soul  of  an  artist.  The  youth 
has  led  the  happy,  careless  life  of  a  modern,  well-to-do  young  Amer 
ican  and  he  cannot,  with  his  meagre  past,  express  the  love,  the  passion 
and  the  tragedies  of  life  and  all  its  happy  phases  as  can  the  master 
who  has  lived  life  in  all  its  fulness.  But  a  girl  comes  into  his  life — a 
beautiful  bit  of  human  driftwood  that  his  aunt  had  taken  into  her 
heart  and  home,  and  through  his  passionate  love  for  her,  he  learns 
the  lessons  that  life  has  to  give — and  his  soul  awakes. 

Founded  on  a  fact  that  all  artists  realize. 

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STORIES   OF  THE   KENTUCKY  MOUNTAINS 

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THE  TRAIL   OF   THE    LONESOME   PINE. 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  "lonesome  pine"  from  which  the 
story  takes  its  name  was  a  tall  tree  that 
stood  in  solitary  splendor  on  a  mountain 
top.  The  fame  of  the  pine  lured  a  young 
engineer  through  Kentucky  to  catch  the 
trail,  and  when  he  finally  climbed  to  its 
shelter  he  found  not  only  the  pine  but  the 
foot-prints  of  a  girl.  And  the  girl  proved 
to  be  lovely,  piquant,  and  the  trail  of 
these  girlish  foot-prints  led  the  young 
engineer  a  madder  chase  than  "the  trail 
of  the  lonesome  pine." 

THE  LITTLE  SHEPHERD  OF  KINGDOM  COME 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

This  is  a  story  of  Kentucky,  in  a  settlement  known  as  "King 
dom  Come."  It  is  a  life  rude,  semi-barbarous;  but  natural 
and  honest,  from  which  often  springs  the  flower  of  civilization. 

"  Chad."  the  "little  shepherd"  did  not  know  who  he  was  nor 
whence  he  came — he  had  just  wandered  from  door  to  door  since 
early  childhood,  seeking  shelter  with  kindly  mountaineers  who 
gladly  fathered  and  mothered  this  waif  about  whom  there  was 
such  a  mystery — a  charming  waif,  by  the  way,  who  could  play 
the  banjo  better  that  anyone  else  in  the  mountains. 

A  KNIGHT   OF  THE    CUMBERLAND. 
Illustrated    by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  scenes  are  laid  along  the  waters  of  the  Cumberland* 
the  lair  of  moonshiner  and  feudsman.  The  knight  is  a  moon 
shiner's  son,  and  the  heroine  a  beautiful  girl  perversely  chris 
tened  "The  Blight."  Two  impetuous  young  Southerners'  fall 
under  the  spell  of  "The  Blight's  "  charms  and  she  learns  what 
a  large  part  jealousy  and  pistols  have  in  the  love  making  of  the 
mountaineers. 

Included  in  this  volume  is  "  Hell  fer-Sartain"  and  other 
stories,  some  of  Mr.  Fox's  most  entertaining  Cumberland  valley 
narratives. 

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BEN    HUR.    A  Tale  of  the  Christ.    By  General  Lew  Wallace 

This  famous  Religious-Historical  Romance  with  its  mighty  story, 
brilliant  pageantry,  thrilling  action  and  deep  religious  reverence, 
hardly  requires  an  outline.  The  whole  world  has  placed  "Ben-Hur" 
on  a  height  of  pre-eminence  which  no  other  novel  of  its  time  has 
reached.  The  clashing  of  rivalry  and  the  deepest  human  passions, 
the  perfect  reproduction  of  brilliant  Roman  life,  and  the  tense,  fierce 
atmosphere  of  the  arena  have  kept  their  deep  fascination. 

THE    PRINCE  OE  INDIA.    By  General  Lew  Wallace 

A  glowing  romance  of  the  Byzantine  Empire,  showing,  with  vivid 
imagination,  the  possible  forces  behind  the  internal  decay  of  the  Em 
pire  that  hastened  the  fall  of  Constantinople. 

The  foreground  figure  is  the  person  known  to  all  as  the  Wan 
dering  Jew,  at  this  time  appearing  as  the  Prince  of  India,  with  vast 
stores  of  wealth,  and  is  supposed  to  have  instigated  many  wars  and 
fomented  the  Crusades. 

Mohammed's  love  for  the  Princess  Irene  is  beautifully  wrought 
into  the  story,  and  the  book  as  a  whole  is  a  marvelous  work  both 
historically  and  romantically. 

THE  FAIR  GOD.  By  General  Lew  Wallace.  A  Tale  of  the 
Conquest  of  Mexico.  With  Eight  Illustrations  by  Eric  Pape. 

All  the  annals  of  conquest  have  nothing  more  brilliantly  daring 
and  dramatic  than  the  drama  played  in  Mexico  by  Cortes.  As  a 
dazzling  picture  of  Mexico  and  the  Montezumas  it  leaves  nothing  to 
be  desired. 

The  artist  has  caught  with  rare  enthusiasm  the  spirit  of  the 
Spanish  conquerors  of  Mexico,  its  beauty  and  glory  and  romance. 

TXRRY  THOU  TILL  I  COME  or,  Salathiel,  the  Wandering 
Jew.  By  George  Croly.  With  twenty  illustrations  by  T.  de  Thulstrup 

A  historical  novel,  dealing  with  the  momentous  events  that  or 
curred,  chiefly  in  Palestine,  from  the  time  of  the  Crucifixion  to  the 
destruction  of  Jerusalem. 

The  book,  as  a  story,  is  replete  with  Oriental  charm  and  richness, 
and  the  character  drawing  is  marvelous.  No  other  novel  ever  written 
has  portrayed  with  such  vividness  the  events  that  convulsed  Rome 
and  destroyed  Jerusalem  in  the  early  days  of  Christanity. 

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Original,  sincere  and  courageous — often  amusing — the 
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MADAME  X.     By  Alexandra  Bisson  and  J.  W.  McCon- 
aughy.      Illustrated    with    scenes   from    the   play* 

A  beautiful  Parisienne  became  an  outcast  because  her  hu» 
band  wcvild  not  forgive  an  error  of  her  youth.  Her  love  for 
her  son  is  the  great  final  influence  in  her  career.  A  tremen 
dous  dramatic  success. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH.    By  Robert  Hichens. 

An  unconventional  English  woman  and  an  inscrutable 
stranger  meet  and  love  in  an  oasis  of  the  Sahara.  Staged 
this  season  with  magnificent  cast  and  gorgeous  properties. 

THE  PRINCE  OF  INDIA.    By  Lew.  Wallace. 

A  glowing  romance  of  the  Byzantine  Empire,  presenting 
with  extraordinary  power  the  siege  of  Constantinople,  and 
lighting  its  tragedy  with  the  warm  underglow  of  an  Oriental 
romance.  As  a  play  it  is  a  great  dramatic  spectacle. 

TESS  OF    THE    STORM    COUNTRY.      By  Grace 
Miller  White.     Illust.  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 

A  girl  from  the  dregs  of  society,  loves  a  young  Cornell  Uni 
versity  student,  and  it  works  startling  changes  in  her  life  and 
the  lives  of  those  about  her.  The  dramatic  version  is  one  of 
the  sensations  of  the  season. 

YOUNG    WALLINGFORD.      By  George    Randolph 

Chester.     Illust.  by  F.  R.  Gruger  and  Henry  Raleigh. 

A  series  of  clever  swindles  conducted  by  a  cheerful  young 

i  man,  each  of  which  is  just  on  the  safe  side  of  a  State's  prison 

jffence.    As  "Get-Rich-Quick  Wallingford,"  it  is  probably 

the  most  amusing  expose  of  money  manipulation  ever  seen 

on  the  stage. 

THE  INTRUSION   OF  JIMMY.    By  P.  G.  Wode 

house.     Illustrations  by  Will  Grefe. 
Social  and  club  life  in  London  and  New  York,  an  amateur 
burglary  adventure  and  a  love  story.    Dramatized  under  the 
title  of  "A  Gentleman  of  Leisure,"  it  furnishes  hours  of 
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